


Yearz

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: A metric ton of amphetamines, Chapter sponsored by Nokia, Defunct restaurant chains, Downer chapter, Drinking, Essex bashing, Extra Special Guest Stars, Flagrant fare evasion, GTA: Brighton Beach, Historically Noteworthy Sex, Inaccurate Tesco descriptions, Jimmy: patron saint of band managers, LA and Rhyl bashing, M/M, Martin and Stewart, Murdoc "Mobile DJ" Niccals, Nature's pocket, Not so many happy returns, Objectively bad BJs, Questionable real estate purchases, Return of the Downer Chapter, Someone says the title. Roll credits., Swearing, Terrible goth dads, That sunshine bag song, The End, Yet more of Murdoc's old band names, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 140,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: An account of how two damaged people tried (and failed and tried) to heal one another. Not so much a love story as an "in another life, things could have been different" story.Multi-chapter 2Doc story wending its way from 1998 to 2018, attempting to reconcile lore as it goes.Complete





	1. August 1998

**Author's Note:**

> This was 95% an excuse to listen to synthpop. Unbeta'd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoc has a plan. Stuart has a trick or two up his sleeve. Music history is made. 
> 
> UPDATE 28/09/18: 
> 
> I’m sure it’s a surprise to hear that I didn’t intend Yearz to be a proper, plotted fic at the start. Like Stuart, I pretty much just wanted to listen to Spandau Ballet.
> 
> Because of that, and the fact that I hadn’t really written anything in about six years when I started and it shows, I’ve decided to rehash (wheeey) chapter one to make it fit better with the fic as it stands now. I may tweak everything up until Mexico.
> 
> Feel free to reread or not as you prefer. The plot will stay the same, it’s more a tonal thing.
> 
> Warnings for verbal abuse, swearing and vomit. Unbetaed.

Vaulting the ticket barrier feels daft when Murdoc’s forced to lean back over it to insert the idiot’s ticket for him. The berk trundles through apologetically.

“Sorry, my grip, it's not-”

“Told you not to bother buying a ticket.”

The prat mumbles something about upsetting his mum but Murdoc’s too busy chivvying him towards the tube station to listen. He ushers the twat through the barrier before hopping over it to a yell of protest from the station staff. They dart along corridors and slip through the closing doors of a northbound train. Murdoc feels black eyes boring into him and reluctantly returns the look.    
  
“I didn't want to come out.” The moron’s hands toy with the flaps on his jacket pockets. “It's so noisy, makes my head hurt.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Murdoc leads the way out of Oxford Circus station, dodging tourists. “If I’d spent another minute in your bedroom watching Big Breakfast I'd have lost my mind. It'll do you good.”  
  
He makes for Poland Street, the idiot clumping along beside him.  
  
“It's really hurting my head.”  
  
“Then take some tablets.”  
  
“I've already had three, haven't I?”  
  
“So what? If it's working, take more. It's not rocket science.”  
  
The prat nods reluctantly, holding out his hand for Murdoc to pass him the pill bottle, child proof cap unscrewed. He swallows several pills.  
  
“Where are we going?”

Murdoc shoves the cap back on the bottle and stuffs it in his pocket.  
  
“For the fourth time: The Drunken Monkey on Green’s Court. You've never heard of either so there's no point keeping asking."

“Right, yeah. Sorry.”  
  
Murdoc bags his usual table, diagonal to the small stage. He fishes a roll up out his tobacco pouch and takes a puff before acknowledging the moron. Murdoc can see the cogs turn as the twat formulates another question and gives him a goading look. The idiot's shoulders slope.  
  
“Why did the judge think you should look after me?”  
  
Murdoc's expression sets in a sneer as he addresses the tabletop.  
  
“Because I put on an Oscar worthy performance. I even wore my cross the other way up. Not a dry eye in the house.”  
  
“You're-”  
  
Murdoc doesn't get to find out what he is because the barmaid starts introducing the first performer. They watch a blonde with a guitar step on stage.

“You said you're looking for a singer, didn't you?” the twat asks as she tunes a string.

“And a guitarist,” Murdoc agrees. He grimaces when she begins warbling some out of tune Cranberries.

“You a drummer?”

“Bass.”

“Oh. Have you put an ad in NME?”

“Mate, at this point I've put ads in fucking Soho phoneboxes.” And he'd gotten some interesting calls as a result. “I didn't bring you here in an advisory capacity.”

“Why did you bring me?”

Murdoc is half tempted to tell the truth and say pity.

“To get you out of the house. You like music, don't you? Got enough synthpop shite lying around your bedroom.”

“Music’s too loud,” the sod says, voice faltering. Murdoc clutches his cigarette tighter, threatening to tear the paper with his nails.

“How about now? Are the pills doing anything?”

The prat considers the question for a whole verse of cod Irish accented Linger. Murdoc’s already ready for shots. Not one to resist temptation, he mutters “hold that thought” and heads to the bar. He wheedles adding two shots of vodka, a pint of Stella Artois and two pints of cider to his tab, lucky it's the new girl serving. He carries it back to the table in two trips.

“Wow,” the twat says, looking at the drinks.

“It's not all for me.”

“I can't drink, not with my pills.”

“Your mum said you used to take pills before, for migraines.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you're telling me you've never had a drink while you were on ‘em?”

“Well, no.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Bit better. Little fuzzy.”

Murdoc’s not surprised, considering the sheer volume of codeine he's scoffed. He holds out a shot.

“To your good health.”

The idiot takes it, looking unsure whether he's mocking him. Murdoc’s not sure himself. The moron taps the shot glass against Murdoc’s then throws it back in a well practiced motion. He considers the beer properly afterwards, lip quirking.

“That's my order, actually.”

“Yeah, I assumed.”

It's shaping up to be a shoegaze-y evening. Someone sings R.E.M. but it's not E-Bow The Letter so Murdoc’s ambivalent. A brunette sings a decent You Stole The Sun From My Heart but he's not going into business with some bird who sets her Welsh pop music sights on Manic Street Preachers over Cerys Matthews.

Stuart starts to materialise after two beers, the lines of pain fading around his eyes and mouth. When he takes his sunglasses off and looks at Murdoc there's a light in his eyes, albeit a hazy, drunk one.

“Is it usually this crap?” Stuart asks during a grim rendition of Disco 2000, voice carrying. Murdoc snorts into his cider.

“No,” Murdoc admits. “But it's easy being a critic.”

“What's that mean?”

“I mean if you were up there, caterwauling and playing chopsticks, you might think differently.”

“Chopsticks?”

Murdoc sarcastically mimes playing a piano. “Like you used to for the kiddies you sold Casios.”

Stuart’s expression falters. Murdoc goes back to watching the idiot on stage hug the microphone stand for dear life. Stuart mutters something Murdoc doesn't catch.

“What?”

“I've got my grade 8. In piano.”

Murdoc looks at him blankly.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“That's the highest one. The hardest one.”

“Congratulations,” Murdoc sneers. Stuart finishes his beer with a scowl. “Bet Phil Oakey is still struggling with his grade 2.”

Stuart looks ready to glass him.

“How's it work?” Stuart gestures vaguely at the stage and nearly tumbles off his chair.

“How's what work, gravity?”

“I wanna have-a go.”

“Fancy making a tit of yourself, eh?”

Stuart’s staggering to the bar before Murdoc's finished his question. He flirts obnoxiously with the barmaid then trips up the stage steps. Murdoc starts thinking of other pubs he can go to.

Stuart mucks around adjusting the height of the keyboard and microphone before addressing the ten strong audience. There's some muttering about his appearance that he either ignores or doesn't hear.

“‘Ello,” Feedback. He grimaces, moves the microphone. “Sorry. ‘Ello, I'm Stuart,” he slurs. “I'd like to dedicate this song to Phil Oakey and to that bloke, who hit me with his car.” Stuart points Murdoc out for good measure and Murdoc nearly drops his glass. There's some confused laughter and then the backing track starts. Unsurprisingly, it's Don't You Want Me.

Several things occur to Murdoc by the end of the first chorus.

Stuart can sing. His performance isn't karaoke or an impersonation but rather a pitch perfect, completely convincing rendition. He even sings the woman's part. He knows all the lyrics.

He's completely unfazed by playing the keyboard while singing. There's a swing in Stuart’s hips that makes Murdoc wish he wasn't playing at all.

Stuart’s singing right at Murdoc. The sarcasm drips off him. Murdoc doesn't look away.

Judging by his dispensing skills, Murdoc reckons he should do an Open University pharmacy degree.

Stuart gets the night’s first enthusiastic round of applause from everyone but Murdoc. Murdoc stares, waiting for his rusty steel trap mind to process developments. Stuart takes a little bow.

“Sing another,” Murdoc hears himself say. A few others voice their agreement and a smile grows on Stuart’s face. The barmaid offers him a ratty song list which he holds right in front of his face, before murmuring in her ear and flustering her.

Stuart steps out from behind the keyboard and takes the microphone from the stand as the backing track starts. Murdoc’s considering going for a piss when he realises it's Gold by Spandau bloody Ballet but then Stuart really opens up the throttle and Murdoc feels pinned to his chair by the force of his singing. He hears a man at the next table mutter “fucking hell”.

Stuart is a live wire, seemingly seven foot tall. He stalks around the stage like a model. Like Jagger. Like Strummer. Like Bowie. Murdoc’s mouth goes dry, hands clenched at his sides.

The night belongs to Stuart. Everyone settles in with drinks and just watches the show. A-ha, Bronski Beat, Erasure. When they ring the bell for final orders Stuart finishes with Look of Love and the last round of applause is the loudest. The blonde and brunette join him by the stage and laugh at his jokes. Stuart’s jacket in hand, Murdoc grabs his arm and yanks him to the door. Stuart reluctantly stumbles outside, waving to the girls as he goes. He takes his jacket and something in Murdoc’s expression makes him smile, smug and wide. The effect is somewhat lost given how many attempts it takes him to pull the jacket on.

“How-” Murdoc starts.

“Grade 8,” Stuart boasts. Murdoc walks them down the alleyway as he tries to think, stopping under the lit sign for a barbershop. Stuart swaggers over to the wall and rests his elbows against it. Murdoc’s unsure whether he's leaning to look cool or because he'll otherwise fall over. Murdoc shoots him a baffled look and Stuart shrugs expansively.

“Talent is an asset,” Stuart’s smile grows wider the closer Murdoc gets so Murdoc keeps going until his boots stub the toes of Stuart’s trainers.

“And little Stuart has it.”

Stuart laughs, heading lolling back against the brick. Murdoc feels faint with possibility. He waits for Stuart to deign to look down at him.

“Cocky sod, aren't you?”

“I've never done that before. Maybe the accident knocked some sense into me."

“Or out of you.”

“Are you any good?” Stuart asks, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I mean you've heard me but you could be shit for all I know.”

“I've had no complaints.”

“Oh yeah?”

They grin conspiratorially, breathing each other's air. Murdoc leans in to kiss him and Stuart lets him. When he pulls back, Stuart’s expression is unreadable. His cheeks bulge and Murdoc jerks out of the way in time to avoid the plume of vomit.

“Christ.”

“M’alright,” Stuart insists, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve before straightening up, expression unfazed. He peers down the alleyway.

“What’re you looking for?”

He's already weaving purposefully past Murdoc, back to Brewer Street.

“I need to find a corner shop,” Stuart slurs, sounding like a man on a mission. Murdoc dubiously jerks his thumb at the steaming pile of sick.

“Not for beer, for an NME. We need a guitarist.”

Murdoc jogs to catch up with Stuart’s mile long strides. Stuart shoots Murdoc a hungry look Murdoc could drown in.

“We're gonna be fucking famous,” Murdoc says breathlessly. Stuart looks deranged, his grin is so wide.

“I know.”

 


	2. 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first guitarist doesn't work out.
> 
> UPDATE 01/10/18:
> 
> Similarly to chapter one, this chapter has been drastically expanded and revised to reflect the tone of the fic as a whole. The plot remains largely the same. I anticipate revising chapter three but no further chapters. Hope you enjoy if you choose to reread. 
> 
> Warnings for sex, violence and misogynistic language.

After much cajoling, the front door opens. The foyer strip lights flicker and hum, the heating pipes drip a steady stream of water onto the rotting carpet and the walls greet them with crude graffiti courtesy of the local youth. Stuart and Russel gawp wordlessly so Murdoc breaks the silence.

“It's a fixer upper.”

A pipe emits a blood curdling screech and Russel starts.

“It's possessed,” Russel says.

“It needs a lick of paint and a new carpet.”

“It needs a priest. Murdoc, this place needs condemning.”

“We could film a zombie movie in here,” Stuart says and Murdoc's unclear whether he means it negatively.

“And we're in Essex,” Russel adds.

“It was free, alright?” Murdoc snaps. Dubious legally speaking, but undeniably free. “You can't do better than free.”

They tour the fifty or so rooms, Murdoc making a mental note of which are beyond repair and which may be salvageable. Purely by chance, the studio suite is one of the less ruined areas, possibly due to being deeper within the building and therefore further from marauders. Ignoring Russel's protests that he'll electrocute them, Murdoc turns on the mixing desk and grins victoriously when its lights glow green and red. The equipment isn't modern, but since Murdoc's only ever used an eight track, he feels like he's sat at the controls of a spaceship.

They take several wrong turns on the way back to the kitchen, only getting there when Murdoc lets Russel take over navigating. Sitting down at the pitted table, they divvy up Kong between them, electing to have entire wings each since the building is so monstrous. They put together a rough and ready to do list and the next day they begin “exorcising” Kong, as Russel insists on calling it. Murdoc goes on several night-time excursions to acquire tools, furniture and kit for the studio and pointedly ignores Stuart and Russel's questions about where, how and with what money he comes about it all.

It's gruelling work and Murdoc's tempted to just take out an insurance policy then burn the place to the ground to make a quick buck. They go with Stuart’s suggestion instead and check out Colchester, the nearest town. There's a castle and lot of signs bragging that Colchester was a Roman settlement and a historic market town. It's like a lot of other provincial towns Murdoc’s had the misfortune of visiting. They get McDonald's for tea, splurging on sundaes and McFlurries to put off returning to their DIY.

On the way back to Murdoc's car, Stuart spots a poster for a house music night every Saturday at some nightclub called LOFT. They wander around and locate LOFT, for future reference, then Russel points out another poster pasted on the wall advertising their garage music night every Friday. After that, Murdoc refuses to leave until they've found something to suit his tastes. They eventually come across a club called Andromeda that plays ska and soul every other Wednesday.

They don't intend to go to all of the nights all of the time but the temptation to put down their paint brushes and bin bags and get a pint proves irresistible. On Saturday they make their now customary trip to LOFT and Stuart throws himself around to some Ministry of Sound bollocks that repeats the word “go” interminably. Murdoc leans against the bar, jolting when someone taps his arm.

“You got anything?”

The woman asking looks about Stuart’s age, not unattractive, dressed in black jeans and a spaghetti strapped vest top with bright red lipstick and a choppy black bob. It's not the first time Murdoc's been mistaken for a dealer so he doesn't bat an eye.

“I'm straight edge.”

She raises an eyebrow at his cider.

“You look like you're having fun,” she says.

“I need this music like I need a hole in the head.” Murdoc gestures to Russel, dancing with some Indian girl, then Stuart, who's still dancing alone, off his tits on pills. “I'm with those twats.”

“Friends?”

“Bandmates,” he corrects and her interest clearly piques.

“What sort of music?”

Murdoc opens and closes his mouth a few times, drawing a blank.

“We're still working that out.”

“I'm here with some old school friends,” she says when he doesn't ask. “I'm looking for a band, actually. I play guitar.”

Murdoc looks at her outfit again.

“D’you love rock ‘n’ roll, Joan?”

“Paula.” They shake and her grip is punishing. 

“Murdoc.”

“Like the A-Team?”

“I precede the A-Team,” Murdoc says. Paula smirks.

“I like Joan. She's not my favourite though.”

“Who is?” Stuart’s watching Paula with obvious interest so Murdoc gives him a goading smile. When Insomnia starts playing Stuart reverts to dancing like a lunatic.

“Lydia Lunch.”

Murdoc turns and considers Paula properly.

“Lydia Lunch is-”

“I know who she is,” Murdoc interrupts. “She's female Nick Cave.”

Paula's lips quirk in irritation.

“He's male Lydia Lunch.”

Murdoc threatens to smile. They go out the fire exit for a cigarette and start rattling off their favourite artists. Murdoc names American punk bands while Paula names English ones. There's some overlap in their lists but more often than not they roll their eyes at one another, not least when Murdoc brings up 60s girls groups and Paula says she prefers 90s ones. They interrupt and patronise one another with their assumptions about what music the other has or hasn't heard. Murdoc feels his temple start throbbing after about ten minutes, partly thanks to Paula's grating Essex accent.

“So you're basically me with tits,” Murdoc summarises after stubbing out his cigarette. He openly oggles them, taking a mental picture for later.

“And a personality, face and arse transplant.”

Murdoc resists glancing over his shoulder to check.

“I need a piss,” he says, which is true, though he also plans to snort some speed. “Perhaps I'll see you back in there Paula.”

“If I don't find someone who'll share their drugs.”

Murdoc holds his hands up, guilty as charged.

“Get your own, cheapskate.”

“I'm on the dole.”

“Have you tried going on the rob?” he calls over his shoulder as he walks back into the club. When he leaves the toilets he can't see Paula, Stuart or Russel, and heads back to Kong after one last drink.

Murdoc's having a piss in the least blocked urinal the next morning when Paula walks in in her vest top and knickers and starts using the urinal next to his, one arm resting against the wall for aim. She gets the same amount on the floor as Murdoc. He stares at her, baffled, and she nods a greeting as she shakes then pulls up her knickers.

“Did you fucking follow me home?” Murdoc asks.

“No. Your house is grim.”

“My house was free.”

“Surprised they didn't pay you to take it off their hands,” Paula says. Murdoc follows her into the corridor but doesn't bother pressing for an explanation when she sets off in the direction of Stuart’s wing. He goes to fetch a Strongbow from the kitchen and finds Stuart eating Cheerios and sporting sex hair.

“What's Paula doing here?” Murdoc poses his question to the mouldy jalfrezi in the fridge.

“Oh, you've met her?”

Murdoc's not surprised Stuart doesn't remember. He takes a swig before closing the fridge and looking at him. He feels more hungover when he sees how self-satisfied Stuart looks.

“Yeah, we met last night. Can't do better than my sloppy seconds?”

Stuart’s spoon halts midway to his mouth.

“What?”

Murdoc drinks in silence.

“Are you saying you fucked her? When? At LOFT?”

Murdoc smiles mysteriously and Stuart’s expression curdles.

“Well?” Stuart demands.

“Should've eaten her out first then you'd know, wouldn't you?” Murdoc offers.

Stuart puts his spoon down with a grimace.

“You're rank.”

“And?” Murdoc sneers. Stuart stares at him while he tries to figure out if he's lying. Paula takes the opportunity to walk in, still trouserless.

“Oh, here she comes,” Murdoc sings under his breath. Paula and Stuart both hear him, Paula grinning toothily, Stuart scowling as he flushes.

“Yeah, watch out boys,” Paula agrees, looking between them. “I'm not interrupting, am I?”

“You know you are. No need to look so delighted about it,” Murdoc says. He walks to the door, giving Paula a wide berth. “I'll leave you lovebirds to it. Don't fuck in the kitchen, I snort speed in here.”

“No promises,” Stuart calls after him and Paula cackles.

*

Murdoc's a schemer but he's got nothing on Paula. Rasputin has nothing on Paula. She does everything incrementally and when Murdoc’s back's turned, like they're playing Granny's Footsteps. It’s only on reflection, on seeing Paula's laundry drying on the radiators or finding her tuning her guitar in the studio, that Murdoc realises she's somehow moved in.

Paula rounds them up every afternoon and herds them into the studio, regardless of how sober or dressed they are, and puts forward ideas for their nameless band. Stuart’s sitting next to her on the settee, an arm about her waist, as she leafs through a scruffy notebook.

“Get it over with,” Murdoc grumbles, leaning against one wall.

“We could do our own artwork for the cover of the demo to save money.”

“We don't have any fucking demos because you're too busy coming up with a marketing campaign.”

“And because your riffs are shit,” Paula retorts. “We could do something with graffiti, that’d be cheap. Use a wall in here, we've got enough of ‘em.”

Stuart seems incapable of disagreeing with Paula but he looks particularly taken with the prospect of aerosols.

“I could do the graffiti. I've done graffiti before.”

“Spray painting “Stuart woz ere” doesn't count,” Murdoc says. Paula flips a few more pages.

“We can make money as a cover band while we get original material together,” she says.

“That is a good idea,” Russel admits. Murdoc gives him a betrayed look.

“No chance,” Murdoc says. He pauses. “What band?”

“Clash.”

“We've got a black hip hop drummer.”

Paula extricates herself from Stuart, turns on an amp and slings on her guitar. Without breaking eye contact she plays the riff from Should I Stay Or Should I Go and Murdoc's expression sours.

“And a blue haired bloke with two dents in his head,” he adds as she plays it again. Laughing, Russel sits down to his drum kit and accompanies her. Murdoc turns to give him a death glare.

“No one is hiring our Clash tribute band Cracker,” Murdoc insists, even as he plugs in his bass and starts playing on autopilot.

Stuart gives a convincing whoop before he starts singing. He swaggers around the room as he sings to each of them in turn. Naturally he reserves “it’s always tease, tease, tease” for Paula, who leers back at him. When the chorus hits, Stuart looks possessed, jumping up and down so much the floorboards protest.

Paula, Murdoc and Russel sing the Spanish backing vocals, all of them out of tune. Murdoc fights to look annoyed when Stuart bounces up and down in front of him, limbs akimbo, as he belts out another chorus.

“You should go,” Murdoc tells Stuart when they finish playing. Stuart gives him a sweaty grin and the middle finger. Behind them, Russel starts playing a familiar beat on his snare drum. In the time it takes Murdoc to whip around and demand he stop immediately, Stuart legs it to his keyboard and starts playing Rock The Casbah, Paula joining in with a raucous laugh. They wind up playing the rest of Combat Rock and Murdoc's just grateful they’ve shut Paula up for a half an hour.

*

Paula becomes Murdoc's malevolent shadow. He can't go for a piss without her following him into the toilets to explain why his newest melody needs work or how terrible his latest band name is, as though Murdoc needs telling how dire “Gorilla” is. She hovers by the urinal, out of the splash zone, reeling off her latest proposals.  

“A stage name?” Murdoc sneers. “I thought you didn't like metal.”

“Metal bands don't own the concept of stage names.”

“Maybe not, but they do them a damn sight better than everyone else.”

“He's got a Bowie vibe, he could definitely pull off a stage name.”

“Have you got one in mind?”

“Of course,” Paula says cockily.

“Let's hear it.”

"2D.”

Still pissing, Murdoc shoots her an underwhelmed look.

“You getting tips from Bono? What's 2D got to do with anything?”

“You said the other day, he's got two dents in his head.” Murdoc groans at the explanation.

“Definitely not. And don't go giving him ideas, he'll be insisting he's fucking “Stu P” by the end of the week.” Murdoc tucks himself away. “Speaking of the weekend, you'll be out of my house by then, I trust?”

“You gonna wash your hands?” Paula asks with a wrinkle of her nose.

“No.”

“And no. I'm planning to propose to him on Friday.”

“Don't even joke about that.” Knowing how lust struck Stuart is, he'd probably say yes. Paula smiles sharply.

“You jealous?”

Murdoc returns her look, expression shuttered.

“Oh I'm devastated Cracker, I rend my garments daily thinking about you both.”

There's something about the way Paula studies Murdoc that makes him feel itchy. He clenches his jaw and gives her a daring look.

“But you do think about us daily, don't you?” Stuart’s room is miles from Murdoc's so he knows she's messing with him but he still hesitates. Paula clocks him with a smirk.

“Do you want me to?” he counters.

“Whatever works for you Niccals,” Paula says, faux sweetly. “But you know I'd fuck you if you asked me nicely.”

Murdoc narrows his eyes. ““You'd fuck me”? You phrased that oddly.”

“No I didn't.”

They consider each other a moment longer before crashing into one another. Minutes later Paula's sat on the edge of one sink, skirt hiked and knickers off as Murdoc kneels between her legs, licking stripes along her slit with the flat of his tongue. She yanks him to his feet when her breath starts to hitch and he shoves his jeans down and thrusts into her, hands gripping her arse.

It confuses Murdoc when she starts sucking on her fingers but making no performance out of it. It makes more sense when she gives him an enquiring look, working her hand behind him and resting her fingertips against his arse crack. He nods. She slips a finger between his cheeks and presses it inside him. His hips snap forward as she crooks it.

“We tried this with Stu but he wasn't a fan,” Paula says breathlessly. Murdoc’s mouth goes dry. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

He digs his nails into her arse as he rams in harder. They stare at one another, faces contorted as they grunt for breath.

“Another,” Murdoc grits out and Paula works in a second finger. He can't help groaning.

“Another."

The third makes him come, head bowed against the crook of her neck. He's considering asking if she came but Paula shoves him off and against the wall. A leg either side of his thigh, Paula holds his hips tight enough to hurt and grinds against him until she comes with a guttural moan. When she steps back, Murdoc's thigh is red with rug burn. He wipes himself off and pulls up his jeans while she has a piss. Paula clearly spots his dawning look of horror and gives him a withering look.

“I've got a coil, twat.”

“Right. Good.”

They share the shattered mirror over the sinks as they rearrange their clothes and hair. 

“Does he make you come?” Murdoc can't resist asking as they walk back to the studio. Paula gives him a wry smile.

“He's twenty, what d’you think? Nice big cock though.”

The words are ringing in Murdoc’s ears when he picks his bass back up, the slightly sour taste of Paula's cunt still on his tongue. Stuart looks up from his keyboard, glancing between them, and Murdoc can't decide if he knows or not.

*

It becomes increasingly obvious Paula is getting bored of any-name-but-Gorilla's lack of dedication. Her efforts to hide what they're up to decrease as her frustration mounts. Their “fag breaks” become longer and practically daily. Murdoc sees their direction of travel like a road laid out before them and while it's not Fleetwood Mac bad, it's bad enough.

One concession Paula negotiates in a bid to focus their attentions is the scaling back of their clubbing. They jettison LOFT in favour of the soul night at Andromeda since it's night the four of them agree most on. It works for a while, until several weeks later Paula becomes increasingly interested in popping out to score drugs or dancing with total strangers while Stuart looks on, frustrated.

After that day's particularly unproductive writing session, Paula foregoes any pretense of dancing with Stuart at Andromeda. She tries instead to dance with Murdoc, since Murdoc has some passable northern soul moves and Stuart carries on like he's at a rave. As a compromise, they end up dancing to Landslide as a lopsided triangle. Murdoc can practically feel Stuart's anger pouring off him. Stuart and Paula's silent fight culminates in the pair heading back to Kong early. Murdoc stays until they throw him out.

When Paula doesn't even wait for their “fag break” the next day to bother him, Murdoc knows she's finished with them and their festering lad pad. She pulls him out of bed before noon, letting him fling on a jumper and jeans before dragging him down the hall.

“We could fuck on my bed,” Murdoc offers but he knows Paula's already crossed the Rubicon.

“Your bedroom stinks worse than the toilets.” 

She unsurprisingly leads him on a route that takes in the kitchen, where Stuart is sat, eating his Cheerios, devoid of sex hair. Stuart looks up as they pass and his expression is angry, sad, annoyed, but unsurprised. He makes no effort to get up. He spends more time looking at Murdoc than he does Paula and Murdoc's heart pounds like he's snorted something. His heart keeps thudding hard as they fuck on the sink, looking at one another while they think about Stuart. Murdoc's unsurprised when the bathroom door opens, shortly after he comes. He's more surprised to see it's Russel stood in the doorway.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Russel asks as they pull their clothes back on. “Stuart’s out there crying man.”

“He'll get over it,” Murdoc says gruffly.

“You need to get out there and apologise!”

“For what?” Murdoc snaps. “If he'd done a better job of shagging her this wouldn't have happened!”

Paula's in the middle of telling Murdoc that she'll speak for herself, thanks, when Russel cuts across them both by punching Murdoc hard in the face. Murdoc staggers back with the force of it, a familiar hot, sharp pain radiating out from his nose. Russel rubs his knuckles, looking stunned at his own actions. 

“I should go and talk to Stuart,” Paula says without enthusiasm. She turns to Murdoc as he drips blood on the piss and water soaked floor.

“Niccals.” Murdoc makes an effort to look up. She's holding out her hand. He takes it and they shake. Her grip is every bit as brutal as the first time. He clears his throat, swallowing some blood in the process.

“Cracker. S’been dreadful.”

“How about that, we've finally found something we agree on,” Paula says with the closest thing she's got to an apologetic smile. She slips out of the room and Murdoc folds his arms, watching Russel expectantly.

“Shit, man.” Murdoc knows things must be bad if Russel’s resorted to swearing. “Why do you do shit like this Murdoc?”

Murdoc doesn't bother saying that, if he knew that, he wouldn't do any of it. He just stares back at Russel while blood drips down his chin. Russel takes in his pained squint and frowns apologetically.

“Go sit on a toilet with your head forward ‘til the bleeding’s stopped.”

When Murdoc makes no effort to move Russel walks him to the third cubicle, a hand on his elbow. Murdoc can't decide if it's the gesture or the amount of blood he's swallowed that makes him feel queasy. They both jump when they hear Paula and Stuart’s livid sounding shouting in the corridor. They stare at the door expectantly but the voices and pounding footsteps carry on by, heading towards the studio.

“Did you know what we were doing?” Murdoc asks.

“I didn't know for sure but I figured.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“It's not my job to deal with your dumbass decisions. But when you're that determined to go to hell in a handbasket that you're about to drag the band down with you, well, you don't leave me a lot of choice." Russel pauses, wincing at Murdoc's presumably swollen face. “I shouldn't have-”

“You should,” Murdoc interrupts.

“I'm gonna go call a taxi.” Murdoc makes to stand, eyes wide with alarm. Russel gently holds his shoulder to keep him sitting. “Not for me. For one of those two.”

Murdoc prays for Paula, mouthing her name before he catches himself.

“Alright.”

Russel gives Murdoc one last, disappointed look.

"You're lucky he weighs five pounds. He's gonna try and whup your ass.”

Murdoc hums his agreement. After Russel's gone, he sits listening to the water torture of the dripping faucets, grateful his nose is blocked so he can't smell the drains. He shakes in anticipation of footsteps in the hall and is almost relieved when he finally hears Stuart’s familiar, flat footed stomp. Murdoc takes a breath and holds it as he braces for landfall.

The bathroom door slams open, slams shut, locks. The door of each stall is thrown wide. Murdoc thinks to pull his legs clear before the door of his cubicle door flies open, crashing into the wall. Stuart, eyes red rimmed, takes in the sight of his swollen face before hauling Murdoc up by the collar of his jumper. Murdoc shoves Stuart's chest in reply and they threaten to trip one another as they stumble across the slick floor, only stopping when the backs of Stuart’s legs hit the edge of one sink. Murdoc ends up stood between them and his cock tries futilely to stiffen.

“We fucked like this,” Murdoc snarls, voice choked and nasal. Stuart’s expression turns hideous with rage. He pushes Murdoc against the wall, a hand either side of Murdoc's head to keep him in place.

“I love her.” Stuart snarls, face inches from Murdoc’s.

“Bollocks.”

“I do!”

“Then why are you in here and not running after her, you daft cunt?”

Stuart slaps him across the face. It's clear he's either never hit anyone or had very little practice, given how feeble it is and how much he trembles afterwards. It only hurts thanks to the broken nose.

“I quit.”

Murdoc grips Stuart’s shoulders.

“Quit what, we haven't even begun! You've been too busy shagging Paula!”

“So have you!” Stuart roars.

“You can't quit!”

“I love her!”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“You can't even stand her, why would you do it?”

They exchange a silent, knowing look. Murdoc looks away, breathing hard through his mouth. Stuart pushes him against the wall to make him meet his eye.

“I'll never forgive you,” Stuart says, but his breath hitches. Murdoc glances down and sees how hard Stuart is, jeans straining.

“Fuck off, she’s nothing special,” Murdoc says, distractedly.

Stuart keeps breathing like a wounded animal, fingers twisting in Murdoc’s jumper, making the collar tighten against his neck.

“Shut up.”

“She’s awful.”

“No she's not.”

“She's just me in a skirt.”

Stuart stares at Murdoc, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he chokes out his words.

“Then you can suck my cock.”

Murdoc's still taken aback.

“What?” he asks softly.

“If you're the same, you'll do,” Stuart says shakily. He unzips his jeans with a trembling hand and Murdoc's mouth goes dry. He pulls out his already leaking cock and Murdoc stifles the noise that tries to escape him.

“Suck my cock Paula.”

They stare at one another, breath held, then Murdoc drops to his knees. He shuffles forwards, a hand on each of Stuart’s thighs and takes him in his mouth only to gag, nose too blocked to let him breath. He spits in his hand and wraps it around Stuart’s cock instead, pumping hard. Stuart stares down at him, breathing rapidly through his gritted teeth, hands pressed against the cubicle wall. The only other noises Stuart makes are plosive “P”s as he threatens to spit out Paula's name.

Murdoc presses his face into the fold where Stuart’s leg meets groin. He smells his own blood alongside sweat and soap. His face throbs with pain at the pressure and he burrows closer. Stuart comes with a harsh, shocked grunt. Murdoc's cock gives a painful twitch, unable to offer anything more. He rests his cheek against Stuart’s over-warm thigh before Stuart jerks away, cleaning himself up and pulling up his jeans, lost in thought.  
  
Murdoc clambers to his feet and washes his hands, Stuart standing at his side as he wipes them dry on his jeans. Murdoc turns to face him, eyes threatening to cross, Stuart's standing so close.

“I'll never forgive you.”

Murdoc sneers at him.

“Whatever you say Stu.”

“2D.” He bites out the name. Murdoc scoffs.

“Don't be stupid.”

“No, she was onto something with that. I'm 2D now.”

The name feels like a line being drawn in the sand, like a full stop. Murdoc wears the most ambivalent expression he can muster.

“As you wish, 2D.”

They start when a frantic knock raps at the door.  
  
“Are you still in here?” Russel asks, voice oddly urgent.  
  
“Not now Russ,” Murdoc snaps.  
  
“Guys, you need to get out here right now.”  
  
Something about the quality of Russel's voice makes Murdoc flick the lock.    
  
Russel is busy looking down at the small child whose hand he's holding. Murdoc and 2D join him in staring. The child is Asian, barely four foot tall, with a scaled down Stratocaster slung over their shoulder. They look between Murdoc and Stuart with a wide, gappy grin, seemingly unfazed by Murdoc's pulverised face and bloody jumper. They chatter cheerfully in what sounds like Japanese.

In their free hand they're clutching a piece of paper. Murdoc reaches for it but, instinctively, knows what he's going to see. Their dainty fingers eagerly shove the crumpled magazine page into his hand and Murdoc smooths it out to see his own NME ad.

“Well,” Murdoc says, addressing the child. “Least you're not a hippy.”


	3. 2000 - 2001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoc declares his undying love (for Noodle).
> 
> UPDATE 09/10/18:
> 
> Similarly to chapters one and two, this chapter has been revised (albeit not as drastically) to reflect the tone of the fic as a whole. The plot remains the same. NB I don't anticipate revising further chapters. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy if you choose to reread.

Murdoc takes the advance cheque from Smiffy and the band leans in to stare at it. Russel wows, Noodle gives a low whistle and 2D has the nerve to sniff. Murdoc shoots him a revolted look. 

“Have you been in,” Murdoc does some mental arithmetic, “seventeen bands?”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Did your dad make you dance for drink money?”   
  
2D does a double take.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Did you spend the last sixteen years gigging?”   
  
“I'm twenty one.”   
  
“Then you don’t get to cry about it,” Murdoc snaps. He's never seen so much money. He shakes Smiffy’s hand so tightly the man squeaks. “It’s a deal.”

Most importantly, the cheque's made out to him. A firm believer in instant gratification, Murdoc immediately takes off, returning days later in a winnebago. His attempts to park it in Kong’s underground car park draw the band’s attention. The fourth time's the charm. He hops out to find Russel glowering with his arms crossed.    
  
“Where did you go?”   
  
“I told you, I went to cash the cheque.”   
  
“You've been gone the whole weekend.”   
  
“Well yeah, then I spent it,” Murdoc says, blasé. 2D and Russel look dumbstruck.   
  
“What do you mean you spent it?” Russel asks.    
  
Murdoc gestures to the winnebago.   
  
“Unless it’s gold plated, that doesn’t explain,” Russel growls.   
  
Murdoc gestures to a Geep, parked several bays down. The vehicle is obviously news to the band. 2D and Noodle go and take a look.

“I also very generously bought us all a trip to Jamaica.”

“Jamaica?” Russel asks incredulously.

“Yeah, I got twatted and found this great deal on Ceefax. Thought we could record some stuff over there, the weed’ll inspire us.”

“Noodle!” 2D hisses, covering the girl's ears.

“Oh come off it, she can't speak English.” Murdoc walks over to the Geep and opens the boot. He fishes around in one Toys R Us bag, unearths the bizarre radio helmet he'd impulse bought and holds it out to Noodle. She figures out the controls in a matter of seconds and wears it with a delighted grin. “You really think she knows the word for weed but not the days of the week?”    
  
“I can’t believe you spent it all,” 2D says, blanching. “You didn't even read the contract before you signed it.”

“Course not, s'a gift horse. Are you really saying you did?”

“Yes,” 2D and Russel say in unison.

“What a pair of saddos. I had better things to do after the Brownhouse gig like-” 2D covers Noodle's ears again so Murdoc leers rather than elaborate.

“It's full of obligations to put out albums, singles, go on tours. If we don't do any of it, they'll want the money back.”

“We better stop mardying and get writing our debut then, eh?” Murdoc sneers.

“Smiffy's gonna shoot our kneecaps,” 2D mutters but Murdoc's too busy ushering the band towards the studio to respond.

Russel had bought a whiteboard for the rehearsal room shortly after Noodle had appeared and the band’s pictionary skills had improved dramatically over the following months. When midnight strikes, Noodle draws herself in bed for the third time and Murdoc gives up his pretense of not understanding. He gives the girl a quick hug, kissing the top of her head before nodding for her to join Russel, stood yawning in the doorway.  

“Fairweather, the lot of you,” Murdoc says. Russel gives him an unimpressed frown which Noodle quickly copies.

“Murdoc, she's ten. Probably.”

“What's your excuse then?”

“I just laid down that whole rap, you've got plenty to work with. You know that stuff takes it out of me man.” Russel glances between Murdoc and 2D. “Try not to kill each other, alright?”

The door snicks shut after Russel and Noodle. Murdoc looks sidelong at 2D and the man's shoulders stiffen.

“You can piss off if you're not gonna contribute anything,” Murdoc says gruffly.

“Play the track back.”

Murdoc’s used to songwriting being a solitary exercise, sat hunched over an acoustic, humming to himself until something takes shape. He'd attempted to write with bandmates before but had given up after one too many arguments about how many bass drums a song needed. Working with Russel and Noodle had proven to be unnervingly simple by comparison. The pair listened and added to his ideas in ways that seemed embarrassingly obvious in retrospect.

Writing with 2D, on the other hand, was excruciating. 2D had warned him that he'd never written music and, sure enough, he spent the majority of his time sat in an uneasy silence as he watched the band work. Oddly, 2D’s discomfort seemed to lessen the more a song developed. Listening back to Untitled Dub Song, his brow furrows intently.

“You alright? You'll give yourself an aneurysm with all that thinking,” Murdoc says to break the silence. “If you've had an idea, you're a bit late, it's nearly finished.”

“What about some melodica?”

Murdoc gives him a mystified look.

“To break up the choruses. They're pretty repetitive.”

“Melodica?”

“Yeah doing a sort of,” 2D gesticulates, “like a, you know, like an Ennio Morricone thing.”

Murdoc considers pretending to understand. He gives 2D a nonplussed head shake instead.

“You know, the composer who wrote the scores for all those Westerns, all the Clint Eastwood films. A Fistful of Dollars, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.”

“Sounds bizarre,” Murdoc says. 2D's mouth thins in frustration. “Try it.”

“No,” 2D snaps. “Forget it, if it's “bizarre”.”

“Bizarre, not shit. Stop being a girl and play it.”

“Play what?”

“What you just said.”

“It's an idea, it's not something I can just play.”

Murdoc scowls at the ceiling.

“Play your fucking recorder before I shove it up your arse. Improvise.”

With an audible sigh, 2D stomps through the door to the rehearsal room. He unearths his melodica from a pile of papers and cables and stands by one microphone. Murdoc sets the song playing. Melodica poised, 2D fails to play a note and looks ready to cry by the time the chorus has ended. Murdoc pauses the track and turns on the studio microphone.

“Stop overthinking it.”

“I can't write music,” 2D says thickly, rubbing his finger and thumb roughly over his eyes.

“Yeah, you've said. Stop thinking about it and just pretend you're fucking Corleone.”

“Morricone.”

“It's one in the morning D. It's not getting any earlier,” Murdoc bites out. “Fuck’s sake, just play.”

“Play the chorus again,” 2D says, sullenly. Murdoc rewinds the track and catches him muttering “god I hate this.”

“Welcome to being in a band. It's not all prancing around.”

2D stares wearily at some spot above Murdoc's head.

“Come up with something better or sit down and leave me to it.”

“Play it again,” 2D snaps.

It takes two hours to get something serviceable out of 2D. They hoarsely hum ideas back and forth over the microphones, stopping one another when they get too close to anything from a Western. After Murdoc beckons him, 2D slopes back into the studio and drops into a chair. Murdoc plays their efforts back and 2D's smile grows and grows. Murdoc covers his face with his hand, thumb and fingers gripping his temples until the heat pricking at his eyes fades.

“It's good.” 2D sounds stunned.

“That's an understatement,” Murdoc mutters. They share a look, their smiles stretching until 2D bursts into laughter.

“What?” Murdoc grins.

“We might actually get famous with stuff like this.”

“Told you we would.”

2D looks at Murdoc in confusion.

“At The Drunken Monkey?” 2D shakes his head. “You really were off your tits.”

“Yeah, a bit.” He gives Murdoc a teasing smirk. “I did a good job of fixing your song, didn't I?”

“Adding some bagpipes constitutes fixing, does it?“

“Yeah, you brought the coal and I made it diamonds.” It's wry enough that Murdoc bites down on any retorts. “We're practically Lennon and McCartney.”

“I'm Macca, obviously,” Murdoc says. “Making all the dough while you mess around with daft girlfriends.”

Murdoc practically feels the temperature drop. It occurs to him to try and backpedal. With a grim thrill, he opts to double down instead.    
  
“Thinking about Paula?”

2D visibly bristles.

“Or Rachel?”

2D tries to answer but Murdoc cuts across him.

“Or about me giving you a handy?”

“All of it,” 2D agrees icily. Murdoc studies him for a moment before shrugging. 2D looks disgusted.

“So you don't care about any of it? You don't think anything you did was out of order?”

“I think caring about it changes nothing. It's done, isn't it? Your options are quit or stay.”

2D frowns at the floor, hands gripping his knees.

“That's not right. I could stay and be angry or leave and forgive you or anything in between.”

“What's being angry achieve? You can be as angry as you like but I can't un-shag them.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Dunno,” Murdoc admits. “Maybe. But it won't matter when we're famous, you'll have a different girl every day of the week.”

2D closes his eyes and leans back in his chair.

“We're gonna spend so much time together if Gorillaz takes off. Tours and press junk kits-”

“Junkets.”   
  
“How's that supposed to work?” His eyes snap open and bore into Murdoc. Murdoc returns the look with eyes dry from lack of sleep.

“How's what supposed to work?”

“How do I spend time with you if you're like this?”

“If I'm me, you mean?” Murdoc smiles cruelly. “Anyone'd think you didn't like me.”

“You make it very hard to like you.”

“Oasis cope.”

2D sits in silence for a time and Murdoc's tempted to leave him to it.

“You say I could quit.”

“Because you could,” Murdoc agrees, a weight settling in his stomach.

“But if I quit, there's no band.”

Murdoc huffs a laugh. “Big-headed of you.”

“You said you'd had seventeen bands before Gorillaz. Only difference is me.”

“And Russ. And Noodle.”

2D looks unconvinced and Murdoc scoffs.

“The ego on you.”

“You need me. I know you wish you didn't but it only works together.”

The words are quiet, like he's confiding in Murdoc. It's not phrased as a question so Murdoc doesn't answer. They study each other a moment longer before Murdoc starts turning off the mixing desk.

“Did your dad seriously make you dance for drink money?”

Murdoc fixes a smirk on his face.

“And sing. Three Legged Dog, Stoke. They're still talking about my Wheels on the Bus.”

2D laughs uncomfortably.

“You're nuts.”

“Maybe. So’s living in a haunted studio in Essex."

2D makes a noise of agreement. “Imagine what it's gonna be like when the album's out. Mental.”

Murdoc can't imagine. After so many years of planning and praying, he feels too close to the prize to see it, like he'll go cross eyed trying. It's scarcely a year before they find out. After Clint Eastwood gets to number three, life becomes so easy it makes Murdoc furious. Back in the day, if he’d wanted to pull some bird, it had taken blood, sweat, chat up lines and tears. Now he’s got so many women falling over him he feels permanently wrung out. Drugs are as easy to come by as alcohol. There’s weed, which 2D and Russel sample from time to time (like 2D needs help slowing down), but Murdoc’s always been partial to an upper. He gets back into speed and   
  
everything   
  
Sortofrunstogether   
  
They’re at Scala in London, playing to thousands. All eyes are on 2D but Murdoc can pretend the cheers are for him. He’s in Paris with three girls on his hotel bed. They’re at the Creamfields after party. Promo shoot. Gig. Video shoot. Gig. Radio show. Gig. Gig. Gig.   
  
They’re in DublinOsakaTokyoEdinburgh. His heart feels ready to give out, hammering away under the stage lights. He’s so high he doesn't know how he's still upright.    
  
Memories stand out in the fog.

The time in Tokyo when they do karaoke at four in the morning and “sing” Motorhead, Barry White, The Sugarhill Gang, Marvin Gaye, everything and anything, until they threaten to lose their voices. He drinks enough whiskey that he comes close to passing out on the booth's wraparound sofa, Noodle asleep on his chest.

The Kong New Year's party. They slip away to watch the fireworks from the tower. A Red Bull fuelled Noodle stays up and dances in the new year with Russel. Murdoc gives 2D a peck when he complains about having no one to snog and 2D moans that he smells like a brewery.    


After their Bristol show. Murdoc’s so wired he threatens to quit because there's too many girls waiting backstage for 2D. The ensuing orgy had been a feat of diplomacy that had made most of the tabloids.    
  
The memory that stands out most is driving their rented tour bus somewhere between Birmingham and Manchester. Murdoc's too cheap to pay for a driver so they're taking turns, Noodle excluded. Murdoc's at the wheel when 2D suddenly yelps and insists they pull over.    
  
“What’s up with you?” Murdoc asks.    
  
“It’s the anniversary isn’t it?”   
  
“Of what?”   
  
2D turns to give Noodle what he clearly thinks is a surreptitious look. Noodle quirks an eyebrow.    
  
“It’s, wait, how’s pig Latin work ag-”   
  
“She doesn't speak English!”   
  
2D still speaks out of the corner of his mouth.    
  
“It’s the day she mysteriously appeared.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“Well, that’s like her honorary birthday, innit?”   
  
“Is it? We didn’t do anything last year.”   
  
“We did, you just got blitzed on rum so you don’t remember.” 2D grimaces. “We’re bad parents.”   
  
Murdoc takes his eyes off the road to scowl at 2D. “We aren’t parents. She’s our colleague, it’s strictly professional.”   
  
“She’s ten. I think. We can’t tell a ten year old not to have a birthday.”   
  
“I agree,” Russel chimes in from his bunk.   
  
“Yeah thanks Russ, no-one asked,” Murdoc glowers. “Alright then genius, what’s your big plan?”   
  
2D looks around, hands fiddling in his lap, before he jabs at a motorway sign.   
  
“There’s a Little Chef coming up!”   
  
“Satan give me strength.”   
  
“Nothing wrong with a Little Chef.”   
  
“Strength enough to kill you,” Murdoc clarifies.   
  
They’re sat down with a round of Olympic Breakfasts within the hour. Murdoc spikes his orange juice with vodka and Noodle looks bemused at best. They awkwardly tuck into their meals and Noodle taps her fried bread against the edge of her plate before taking a tentative bite. On his fourth can of Stella Artois, 2D stands up, cigarette in hand.   
  
“Speeches!”   
  
“Speeches?!” Murdoc tugs on 2D’s t-shirt but the man stays put, doing a finger wave at some women at a nearby table before refocusing on Murdoc. “No-one does birthday speeches, that's not a bloody thing!”   
  
“We haven’t got presents. We’ve got to do something.”   
  
Murdoc and Russel share a look. Russel shrugs.   
  
“Fine, get on with it.” Murdoc lets go of 2D with a waft of his hand. 2D clears his throat. He draws interest from other diners, a few of whom have definitely clocked who they are. Murdoc’s interested to know what The Sun will make of it all.   
  
“Noodle,” 2D starts solemnly, pointing at the girl. “Noodle, you’re brill. I think you’re so brill.” He jabs his finger for emphasis. “I’m so happy you turned up mysteriously like you did. In fact, I’m so happy we’re all here, even Murdoc.”   
  
“Cheers for that.” Murdoc drags 2D back to his seat when he looks ready to start singing. “Russ?”   
  
Russel fixes Noodle with a smile and, being the class act he is, goes ahead and says something in Japanese that causes Noodle to light up and give him a bear hug. Murdoc’s sopping up tomato juice with his fried bread when 2D elbows his side.    
  
“C’mon Murdoc, your go.”   
  
He talks through a mouthful of bread.   
  
“I’m alright, ta.”   
  
“Murdoc!”   
  
Murdoc looks longingly at the exit, takes a swig of “orange juice” then clears his throat. He remains firmly seated.   
  
“Noodle, you don’t understand a word I’m saying, so this is pointless. Legume. Uruguay. Spelunking. See?” Murdoc looks to 2D and Russel, who scowl back at him. He sighs. “That being said, I never expected to have a ten year old around. I mean, I’ve definitely got some ten year olds but none of ‘em have tracked me down yet.” His guffaws are met with stony silence. “No-one? Fine.” He finishes his drink. “Noodle. I was raised by a non-functioning alcoholic for beer money and lost my virginity at nine.” 2D and Russel gawp - it's another story for another time. “What’m I getting at? Ah, right: Noodle.”   
  
She smiles at him sweetly. He meets her eye momentarily before addressing his hash browns.   
  
“I love you sprog. You’re one of the best things that’s happened to me and I will glass anyone who mentions this ever again, are we all clear on that?”   
  
2D, Russel, Noodle and a considerable number of their fellow diners nod.   
  
2D’s weaving by the time they head back to the tour bus. He tries and fails to clamber into his top bunk while Murdoc watches from his bottom bunk, chuckling.   
  
“It’s not funny, it’s moving!” 2D insists.   
  
“Have mine, idiot.”   
  
“I can't do that, s’yours.” 2D snaps his fingers as though coming up with an ingenious solution. “Let’s share.”   
  
“I can just use yours.”   
  
“No! C’mon-”   
  
“Look, whatever weird porn you’ve got up there-”   
  
“Noodle!” 2D hisses. Murdoc ignores him.   
  
“Whatever porn you’ve got in your bunk, I’ve seen weirder.”   
  
“You got weirder?” 2D gives him an intrigued look.   
  
“Get in here, Satan help me.”

2D kicks off his shoes and follows Murdoc behind the bunk’s curtain. He makes several attempts to fold himself onto the bed but only succeeds when Murdoc manhandles him inside. After threatening to wind one another with their elbows and knees, Murdoc finds himself on his back, flush to the wall. 2D’s head rests on his shoulder, breath hot on his jaw.    
  
“You’re secretly alright, you know?” 2D slurs.    
  
“Fuck off.”   
  
“It’d be nice if you were nice.” 2D’s spindly fingers toy with his cross until Murdoc bats them away.   
  
“Well I’m not. Tough shit.”

2D's hand settles on Murdoc's chest, fingers splayed.    
  
“Forever’s a long time to be cruel.”   
  
Murdoc’s hand settles on 2D's back, fingers spread over the bumps of his spine and ribs. The bunk feels like it's contracting around Murdoc, like the air’s being forced out to make room for 2D.     
  
“Then I’m off to a fine start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2D in Little Chef with a fag on and a can of Stella brings me joy and I hope it did you.


	4. 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Englishmen go for a walk all the way to the (Hollywood) hills.
> 
> (Warnings for sex, violence and language. Unbetaed.)

The stage lights snap on with a boom. Stuart is pale but his hair is perfect as he watches the crowd from one wing. He retreats further backstage when they start jeering impatiently.

He turns to his mother, tall with equally well coiffed hair. She holds his upper arms lovingly as she studies his face.

“What’s wrong Stuart?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he admits in a tremulous tone. She gives his arms a squeeze and smiles wisely.

“Stuart, you know you have a gift. You have to share it with the world.”

Beyond the curtain, two men enter the venue. They awkwardly pass through the crowd, ignoring protests as they creep closer to the stage.

“You’ve got to hear this guy, Murdoc,” Russel says in a low tone.

“You better not be wasting my time, Russel,” Murdoc warns, finding a spot against one wall and crossing his arms expectantly.

Backstage, Stuart wipes away a tear as he listens to his mother’s words. He takes a breath and heads out onto the stage. The crowd settles. The backing track starts and, after a moment’s hesitation, Stuart begins pouring his heart out to “More Than A Feeling” by Boston.

As he sings, Stuart’s eyes lock with Murdoc’s. Murdoc stares, slack jawed, back at Stuart. Stuart, still singing, returns the look, intrigued.

This goes on for a while. The crowd starts to look restless.

“Fuck.” Murdoc rubs a hand over his face. “Line?”

“CUT!” the director shouts. The lights turn on in the soundstage. A few extras audibly sigh.

“It’s “bloody hell, who is this guy”,” the prompter in Murdoc’s earpiece offers wearily.

2D and Murdoc continue to share a look which is less awestruck and more despondent.

“Let’s take a break,” the director says. Murdoc lets a stylist attempt to comb his fringe off to one side for the umpteenth time, only to flatten it over his eyebrows as soon as she’s turned her back. Murdoc, 2D and Russel all head out into the backlot, bright in the LA sunshine, a couple of well-heeled executives in tow. Noodle is sat outside in a director’s chair, tinkering with her guitar.

“I don’t know why you’re so annoyed, Murdoc,” Russel says coolly. “This was your idea. Did you seriously think they’d let you write the script too?”

“Look, a couple of movies didn’t do the Beatles any harm, did they?” Murdoc insists, “It just needs some… finessing. Some stuff’s been lost in translation.”

“It’s nothing like what happened,” 2D chimes in, “I mean, Murdoc, you were an arsehole for one thing.”

“Fuck off, I was encouraging,” he grouses.

“Not to mention everything about me flying through the windscreen of your Astra’s been cut.”

One executive pauses in her attempts to engage 2D in conversation to add, “It didn’t test well with audiences. They said Murdoc came across as cruel.”

“Well, yeah,” 2D and Murdoc retort. 2D has a hurried word with the woman following which the band are left alone. 2D hums along with the chord progression Noodle is working on.

“What did she want?” Murdoc asks between iterations of the verse. 2D looks up, eerie looking under the make-up and perfect hair.

“Oh, nothing.”

“What kind of nothing?” Murdoc needles.

“I don’t know,” 2D sits down next to Noodle, “some TV show.”

“What? You’re just some singer, why would they want you on TV?”

2D’s brow furrows. “And you’re just some bassist, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m a musician. I write shit. You're a performer.”

“Well maybe she's after performers and not musicians,” 2D says, evidently offended. “And I’m only telling you what my agent’s said. It’s some TV thing, like a drama, I dunno.”

Murdoc catches himself before he asks any more questions, schooling his expression to be unfazed. One of the production team comes by to corral them back onto the soundstage. 2D is slow to get up from his seat. At his side, Russel is still tapping out a beat.

“What’re you waiting for?” Murdoc asks, shooting them all irritable looks.

“S’just, the song’s sounding really good,” 2D says, giving Noodle’s shoulder a pat. She gives him a sagacious smile.

“Sod the song, we’ve got a movie to shoot.”

Russel shakes his head, continuing with his beat.

“Murdoc, we came to America to play music, remember?”

“Yes, and the less we all say about that last tour, the better,” Murdoc says. “This is a good opportunity to get our names out there.”

“But we’re a band,” 2D frowns. “Couldn’t we just do that by playing music?”

“Look,” Murdoc leans in conspiratorially, “do you lot have any idea how long it took to get a bloody movie deal? We’re making a movie and you’re going to like it. You’ll be singing a different tune when we’re all winning Oscars.”

“I won’t be singing any tunes at this rate,” 2D mutters.

“Alright smart arse. Look-”

The director - short, fat and even angrier than Murdoc - comes to stand in the soundstage doorway. Murdoc can feel the man’s eyes boring into him. “‘D, your “mum” is bloody expensive, we can’t keep her on the clock forever.” He can’t resist adding “your actual mum on the other hand.”

2D’s mouth quirks in a threatened grin. He settles for getting to his feet and punching Murdoc’s arm.

“Fine.” He looks to Noodle. “Keep working on the bridge yeah? We’ll be back in a bit.”

As the three men walk back into the studio, 2D shoots Murdoc a sloping smile.

“Your hair looks ridiculous off to the side like that.”

“I know,” Murdoc mutters, “but look at what they did to Russ, you can see your reflection in the back of his head.”

*

It’s plain to everyone involved that the movie is rapidly unravelling. The reshoots turn into rewrites turn into hiring new writers. Eventually, the production company decides to cut its losses and shelve the project until later that year. It gives the band more time to investigate their new base. The mansion they’re renting is the opposite of Kong: spotlessly clean, relatively new and painfully predictable. The four take to the city in different ways: Noodle finds a local dojo and spends time at the beach. Russel investigates the local hip hop scene. 2D gets into yoga and frozen yoghurt and Murdoc props up dive bars in West Hollywood.

Russel and Noodle are already out in the city one day while 2D and Murdoc have a hungover, mid-afternoon breakfast of muesli (2D) and whiskey (Murdoc). They’re sat on the balcony, basking in the sunshine, when 2D pipes up.

“We should go up there.”

“Where?”

2D gestures to the Hollywood sign with his spoon. Murdoc gives it a glance.

“We can see it from here.”

“Yeah, but if we’re up there, we’d see down here.”

Murdoc looks unconvinced.

“Be nice to go on a trail, see some nature.”

“Would it?”

2D pauses in scraping the last of the muesli from his bowl.

“I’m sort of sick of seeing perfect teeth. Half my yoga class has got facelifts.”

“We’re not exactly hikers.”

“How hard can it be?” 2D presses. “Come on, we could bring a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Murdoc sneers.

“Or, well, snacks. C’mon, you might enjoy it.” 2D’s mobile chirps. He fishes it out of his pocket and checks a text, watched closely by Murdoc.

“Your agent?” Murdoc guesses. 2D nods.

“An advert job or something. Has yours been bothering you?”

“Yeah,” Murdoc lies readily, “some TV show.”

“Oh? What show?”

“You wouldn’t know it, some edgy drama thing,” Murdoc shrugs. “Look, I’ll go on the hike if you leave your mobile here. You’re always pratting about with it these days.”

After some minimal planning - consulting a guide book Russel had bought - the pair head out, complete with caps and tinted sunglasses in an effort to stay incognito, and a picnic of vodka, cigarettes and sweets. It becomes obvious at the midway point that neither man is in any shape, both shedding their t-shirts and jackets as they drag themselves the remainder of the way. At the vantage point, sweat sodden, they find a patch away from other hikers and flop onto the rough ground. Silent save for their laboured breathing, the pair take in the sight of the city. 2D is first to speak.

“The view’s better in Tokyo.”

Murdoc, mouth full of M&Ms, nearly chokes with laughter. 2D joins in, head in his hands.

“All the buildings are so short, why didn’t we think about that?”

“It’s a bit flat,” Murdoc admits. “Flat and wide I suppose.”

He offers 2D some conciliatory M&Ms. When 2D’s finished his mouthful he fishes out a cigarette, lights it and takes a puff.

“This is ridiculous. I mean, as a kid, we’d go to Benidorm or maybe Tenerife when we’d had dry bank holidays.”

“Eh?” Murdoc looks sidelong at him.

“Better takings at the funfair,” 2D explains. “Now I’m in Hollywood.”

“Correct.” Murdoc takes a swig of the remaining vodka.

“Did you ever go anywhere like this before?” 2D asks. Murdoc shakes his head.

“No, never liked flying. Though first class helps.”

“Where’d you go away as a kid?”

Murdoc looks at 2D suspiciously.

“Nowhere. Well, Hannibal and I ran away to Rhyl once.”

“Hannibal?”

“My brother.”

2D’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’ve got a brother?”

“Yeah. He’s a cunt and he’s in prison.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older,” Murdoc grinds out. “Why do you give a toss?”

The temperature dips as the sun begins to set. 2D slips his t-shirt back on, awkwardly holding his cigarette aloft as he does so.

“I just never knew.” His head pops out of the neck of his t-shirt. “I haven’t got any siblings.”

“I know.” Murdoc puts his leather jacket on over his bare chest, toying with the zip. “Your parents mentioned it in their impact statement thing in court. How it was all especially tragic because they only had you.”

“Oh,” 2D’s lips press into a thin line. “Right.” He picks up the vodka and takes a swig. “How was Rhyl?”

“Shit.”

“Beni’s alright. Sort of like Crawley but everyone’s got their top off ‘cause it’s hot,” he looks back out at the twinkling lights below them, “and now-”

“And now?”

“I’m here.” He gestures to the city. “I’m here and I’m a Buddhist.”

“Still?” Murdoc asks sarcastically. “I thought that was last Tuesday?”

2D ignores him. “And I’m a vegetarian and I do yoga and I was on the cover of NME and I’m in a band and it’s great and-” He pauses, lighting a fresh cigarette. “I just think about it sometimes.”

“About what?”

“How I could have had all these other lives and now they’re gone,” he explains, cigarette dangling from his lip. “Like, somewhere there’s a 2D-no, a Stuart, and he’s got kids and a missus and he works for his dad down at the funfair." Spotting Murdoc eyeing it, 2D holds out the cigarette pack. “And you know what, I’ll bet Stuart’s happy as anything.”

“Is this some Buddhist bollocks?”

“No, and it’s not bollocks,” 2D says, levelly. Murdoc borrows his lighter. He watches 2D watching the city below. “It’s just weird knowing some stuff’s gone for good. None of that’ll happen now.”

Murdoc keeps quiet, checking the vodka bottle only to find it empty.

“‘M making sense though, aren’t I? Don’t you feel like that sometimes? Like, there’s all those other Murdocs,” 2D’s gesticulating with his cigarette, “the ones who didn’t do what you’ve done. Where would they be?”

“Dead.” The answer is knee jerk and soft enough to deny. 2D turns to look at him and, quieter still, Murdoc adds, “the ones who didn’t meet you are dead.”

2D leans across and kisses him gently. Murdoc’s eyes close at the light brush of 2D’s lips. When he pulls backs, 2D’s expression is searching. Murdoc schools his face to be neutral, jaw working imperceptibly.

“Have we ever-” 2D begins.

“Just that once, back in Soho.”

2D makes a noise of recollection. In an apparent bid to clear the air, he starts to whistle. With horror, Murdoc recognises it as “More Than A Feeling”. As 2D begins singing in earnest, Murdoc cackles and joins in with the distraction. 2D insists on clapping along.

“What the fuck were they thinking?” Murdoc asks, rubbing tears from his eyes. “What part of “he sang Spandau Ballet in a pub and looked like a bit of a pretty boy” sounded like, “he sang Boston at a nightclub to a cast of thousands”?”

2D laughs. “It’s less “Help”, more “Spinal Tap”.”

As his chuckles subside, 2D switches to humming Noodle’s work in progress. Murdoc lets 2D cycle through it a couple of times before joining in, barely in tune.

“Picture I’m a dreamer, I’ll take you deeper, down to the not-sure,haven’t-figured-it-out-yet,” he riffs, “daah, dah dah dah, what are we going to do.”

2D gives a nod of approval before moving on in the song.

“I love you, but what are we going to do,” Murdoc sings, looking out at the city.

2D chimes in: “And then we need some sort of crazy piano solo.” He crunches on the last few M&Ms. “Y’know, to prove I’m not “just some singer”.”

“I’m going to make it a bass solo just to spite you.” Murdoc stubs out his cigarette and gets heavily to his feet. “We better get back before we forget the way in the dark.”

2D nods. “It’s a long way home.”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees wryly, “but it’s all downhill from here.”

*

It’s no surprise to the band when the movie gets canned after the latest set of writers and the director walk away from the project. Murdoc acts unfazed, taking great pains to explain how it was impossible balancing the demands of the movie with his other television offers. The note he leaves on the breakfast bar explains as much, telling them that one role was so desperate for him that he’s got to head off before even Russel has woken up, returning at a date to be confirmed.

It’s all bollocks of course. He drains the band’s bank accounts before he goes.

He’s across the border in his rented winnebago by sunset. The next day, he’s found a supplier and spends his time hopping whorehouses, passing bad cheques and taking as many amphetamines as he can get his hands on. The amount of tequila and narcotics explain why it takes him as long as it does to realise he’s being tailed. At first, Murdoc assumes it’s paranoia from all the drugs making him see the same figure slipping around corners, overdressed in a baseball cap, hoodie and sunglasses.

One morning he finishes his huevos rancheros at a roadside cafe and heads back to the winnebago, casting nervous looks over his shoulder as he goes. The navy blue Toyota Camry soon appears in his rear view mirror, swerving in a way that speaks to the quality of the driver’s eye sight. A cold shiver runs down Murdoc’s spine as reality dawns on him. He takes the next turn into a country lane and breaks hard enough that the Camry barely has time to screech to a halt, joining the winnebago practically in a ditch.

Sure enough, the driver of the Camry comes marching over to the winnebago’s side door. Murdoc is already framed in it, livid, as 2D shucks off his baseball cap and sunglasses.

“You could have killed me!” 2D barks.

“Good! Why the fuck are you following me?”

“Why the fuck did you take off?” Murdoc opens his mouth to reply only for 2D to snap, “and don’t tell me any of that bullshit about a TV show, your agent’s been looking for you too!”

Murdoc attempts to yank the door shut. 2D forces it open wide enough to climb inside.

“It’s none of your fucking business.” Murdoc grits out. 2D manages to slam the door shut behind them both, locking the latch. He advances on Murdoc, teeth bared.

“It’s my business because we’re in a fucking band together,” 2D snarls, “remember that?”

“Do you?” Murdoc retorts. 2D pulls a face.

“What?”

“You’re the one getting all the offers. I’ve heard your bloody agent: solo albums, TV shows, you’ve got the lot.”

“What are you even doing down here?” 2D asks, looking uncomfortable at the level of Murdoc’s jealousy. “Why Mexico?”

“Why not? And you know what I’ve been doing, you stalking bastard. I’ve been in Tijuana, drinking tequila and fucking whores.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Plan? Why do I need a plan?”

2D throws his hands up, bewildered.

“You’re Murdoc, you’ve always got a plan!”

“Well I don’t know,” Murdoc says spitefully. “I guess I’ll try drinking myself to death or getting some fatal case of the clap or something, see which one gets me first.”

2D looks at a loss for what to say so Murdoc keeps digging.

“It’s over. Noodle and Russel hate my guts for fucking around with movies and Hollywood and shit, you’ve got your foot out the door. It’s over.”

2D’s expression darkens.

“It can’t be over.”

“It’s my band,” Murdoc insists. “It’s whatever I fucking say it is.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about how many bands you’ve been in?” 2D rubs his forehead. “First sign of a fucking set back and you give up?”

“It’s not giving up when the writing’s on the wall,” Murdoc mutters, trying to get to the door. 2D blocks the way, spreading his arms across the exit. Murdoc makes for the driver’s door instead. 2D grabs his shirt and holds him in place. Murdoc shoves him in return.

“You’re not booting me out of my own fucking band. I’m doing this on my own terms or I’m not doing it at all.”

“You’re a joke,” 2D says. Murdoc pulls out of his grip and storms to the bedroom, failing to get the door closed before 2D’s worked his way inside. “This is a joke.”

“Oh fuck off, like your life’s so terrible.”

“My life was fine! I was fine back in Crawley! But that’s all gone now, and this is what I’ve got left,” 2D says, tone raw, “and now you’re done with that as well. You fucking made me like this. You did this.”

“I’m not having this conversation, you’re being ridiculous,” Murdoc says, shakily.

“I’m ridiculous? Look at you. Do you know what day it is? What time it is? You look like shit.”

Murdoc’s eyes narrow.

“Then go,” he hisses in 2D’s face. “No-one asked you to come here, pretty boy. You’re a fucking dime a dozen, fuck off before-”

2D presses Murdoc against the wall so hard the wardrobe doors rattle. Murdoc grips his hips as they kiss hungrily, grinding against 2D until they're both openly groaning against each other’s mouth and then-

“Fuck me.”

2D's mutters his agreement into the kiss so Murdoc gives him a slap on the backside. The other man jolts, hips bucking.

“No. ” His voice is thick with want. “I mean.”

2D pulls back enough to look wonderingly into Murdoc’s face.

“Oh.”

“Have you?”

“With women.”

“S’the same.”

2D nods raggedly, scanning their dishevelled surroundings. They reluctantly separate long enough to ransack the bedroom, Murdoc eventually flinging a tube of lube at 2D who fumbles it open. They strip, 2D turning Murdoc around against the chest of drawers. They dig into Murdoc’s chest, his fingers gripping the far edge as 2D’s lube covered cock presses in slowly.

There's nothing but the sound of 2D’s heavy breathing through gritted teeth and Murdoc’s pants. 2D bottoms out and Murdoc can feel the man tremble. He keeps his eyes closed tight.

“Fuck, Mur-”

Murdoc can't bring himself to speak; it's all he can do not to moan or worse. He reaches behind him to grip 2D’s thigh tightly, nails digging in. 2D gives a little hiss before seemingly getting his resolve. A hand reaches out to grip Murdoc’s shoulder and he sets a brutal pace. Murdoc winds up biting his forearm in a bid to keep quiet. The sounds of skin on skin and the smells are enough to make his eyes roll.

2D comes with a guttural moan, his fingers on Murdoc’s shoulder splaying over the too-warm skin. Murdoc is already long spent and he's too embarrassed to even acknowledge it, too busy holding onto the dresser. 2D pulls out quickly and walks over to the bed. Murdoc hears him lie down, the crinkle of the silk and creak of the springs and then nothing, as he presumably stays perfectly still. Murdoc takes a moment to straighten up with a winded noise. He stumbles into the bathroom and makes an effort to clean himself up before walking back out to see 2D staring at the ceiling. With the winnebago parked in the middle of nowhere, Murdoc’s left with limited options and his aching body tells him to just crash out too. He joins in considering the ceiling before 2D turns toward him. The man's expression is a mixture of stunned and searching. He returns the look coolly. They go back to looking at anything else in the room. Furtively, Murdoc catches 2D glancing at the dresser. Murdoc grimaces at the mess but can't bring himself to get up and do anything about it. He settles for draping his forearm over his closed eyes.

“Was that g-” 2D begins thickly, minutes later.

Murdoc wants to make a snide comment but he's feeling a nauseating combination of languid and exposed. He gives a brusque nod.

2D reaches for his clothes. Murdoc hears the click of a lighter, smells smoke.

“Fuckin’ hell, ” 2D mutters before taking a drag. Murdoc can't stop a delirious laugh at that.

“Having some sort of crisis?” he asks, finally letting his arm drop. 2D scowls around the cigarette.

“You’ve been going to brothels.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well,” 2D looks despairing, “aren't you gay?”

Murdoc wants to nick the cigarette for a puff but it feels too familiar. He roots around under the bed until he unearths a bottle of moonshine instead and takes a long gulp.

“You're worse than The Daily Mail.”

“We just-”

“I know, I was there,” Murdoc says snidely.

“I wouldn't care if you were,” 2D says awkwardly. “I-”

“I don't know,” Murdoc eventually bites out after weighing his options. “Is that alright? I don't fucking know. There were no prizes in the Niccals household for wanting a cock up your arse so I've never spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

“Right,” 2D says uneasily. Silence falls until Murdoc can't help but mutter.

“I mean, do you know?”

“I'm not gay,” 2D says, “but-”

“We did.”

“I know,” 2D agrees. “This is…” he gives up on his sentence, seemingly dazed by it. He plucks the moonshine from Murdoc’s hand and takes a swig.

“I mean, you're-”

“I know,” Murdoc's tone is apologetic.

“It's like that U2 song,” 2D says, semi-serious. Murdoc shoves his arm.

“God I fucking hope not.”

The combination of moonshine, orgasm and heat eventually slows their conversation down to the odd word and, finally, snores from 2D. Murdoc is about to drop off too when he hears sirens in the distance. He’s ready to ignore them when 2D snaps awake. The man visibly stiffens.

“Oh no,” 2D mutters, voice still slow with sleep. “Fuck.”

The sirens get closer. Murdoc sits up against the headboard, watching in bafflement as 2D begins rummaging on the floor for his clothes. Unable to find his own, he settles on a faded Specials t-shirt of Murdoc’s.

“It’s the police,” 2D says, sounding queasy.

“No shit face ache,” Murdoc says, bewildered. “Where’re you going? They coming for you? What d’you do?”

2D looks pale under his tan when he turns to look at Murdoc.

“They’re coming for you.”

Murdoc looks nonplussed.

“What?”

“I… I told them you took off with all our money,” 2D says, tone stunned.

“WHAT?”

“I was trying to find you, so, I rang the police.”

“You could have just said I was missing.”

“But you did take all our money!” 2D snaps. Murdoc jumps out of bed and pulls his jeans on, running a hand over his face before glaring at 2D.

“I can’t believe this.”

“You took all the m-”

“It’s my band, it’s my money!” Murdoc all but yells, panicked. The sirens get closer.

“Bollocks!” 2D shouts back. “It’s ours! And, if, if I’d known we were going to-”

“Oh, fuck off,” Murdoc says, trying to keep his tone livid rather than betrayed. “If you’d known you’d get a shag you wouldn’t have fucked me over? Fuck off-” Murdoc suddenly remembers the bad cheques in Tijuana. “Fuck-”

When the police kick the door open they’re both on the floor, Murdoc sporting a black eye, his hands around 2D’s neck. They drag the pair apart. They read Murdoc his rights but he’s too busy staring at 2D, sat on the step of the winnebago.

The man looks washed out as he watches them bundle Murdoc into the car. He falters before calling out.

“Murdoc, I-”

Murdoc clears his throat, aware he could say anything at all. He could be the Murdoc who's reasonable and forgiving. He could be the Murdoc who admits his mistakes, mistakes so massive they're probably visible from space. He's sure that Murdoc is happy, wherever he is.

Instead, he hears himself as though from a distance. His voice is oddly calm.

“Never speak to me again, Pot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with the official plot now because, let's face it, it's whacky.


	5. 2003 - 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2D hits new lows. Music hits new highs. (Warnings for language. Unbetaed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for 12DPOV. Also, as much as I love the idea of Shane “Monster Truck Aficionado” Lynch, I'm not including any real people in this.

The police cars leave. 2D climbs in the Camry and heads for Hollywood. The drive feels less significant than it ought to. There's traffic on I5.

News breaks about Murdoc’s sentence as 2D arrives back at the mansion. Thirty years. It seems excessive given what he's done but fair in a karmic sense. Russel and Noodle are full of questions which 2D does his best to answer as vaguely as possible.

For a couple of weeks the band lies low at the mansion, dodging journalists and avoiding agents. 2D takes more pills than strictly necessary given the size of his migraines.

When he was younger, his dad would sometimes say they had no money. It always meant that Stuart needed to ask more nicely or offer to clean one of the cars before he got what he was after. In recent years, anything he'd fancied had been a rider or a credit card swipe away.

When the debt collectors appear it's clear no amount of niceness will make any difference. Russel convinces them to leave a few suitcases of belongings and the rest is carted away. Days later they're given notice that the mansion is being repossessed and the utilities disconnected.

Noodle is first to leave, heading back to Osaka if 2D caught her gist. Russel is determined to stay in LA but there's a troubled quality to him that makes it clear he doesn't want company. At no point do they mention Kong.

2D flies back to Gatwick and uses some rogue pound notes in his wallet to pay for a cab to Crawley. The driver clocks him in the rearview mirror and tells him his daughter likes that bag song of theirs. 2D, running on empty after the flight, perks up enough to smile.

The cab pulls away before he realises it's season and his parents will already be down in Eastbourne. He wanders around until he finds a newsagent and a number for a mini cab office. The controller sounds increasingly suspicious and 2D increasingly mortified as each and every card in his wallet is declined.

After rummaging around in his suitcase and trouser and jacket pockets, he gathers enough shrapnel to pay for the bus into town. Muscle memory walks him not to the bank but down Friary Way, through the shopping centre and up Parkway instead.

It's still there, sign faded. The only thing that looks remotely new is the plate glass window.

The bell tinkles as he steps inside. He can't resist his usual call of “Mornin’ Norm.”

Norm had already looked about ninety when he'd worked there, stooped with bushy eyebrows and nostrils. He's barely changed, save for his expression. When 2D had worked at the Emporium, Norm had always looked unimpressed - 2D had been oddly unremarkable for a kid with blue hair. Now, Norm looks at him like he's the second coming, smiling broadly.

“Stuart!”

2D tries a new attitude on for size. He spreads his arms with a grin.

“The one and only. How've you been Norm?” He casts a look around the overstuffed shop and sees new stock alongside pianos and keyboards Norm has been trying to flog for years.

“Can't complain, can't complain,” Norm says before holding up a wizened finger. “Oh, let me show you one of our best sellers.”

2D follows Norm further into the shop.

“Still got that mini harpsichord eh?”

“Never should have bought that,” Norm says wearily. He rifles through a rack on one wall and hands 2D a glossy music book. His own face looks back from the cover. 2D tries to keep his lip from quivering. He has a quick flick through the pages but stops when he catches sight of the music and lyric credits for each song.

“Truth be told I'm getting sick of kids playing that sunshine song of yours on the demo keyboard,” Norm says. 2D laughs.

“Sorry Norm, it's catchy that one." It dawns on 2D why he's there. “Um, I actually just got back from LA.”

“Very nice.”

He wanders over to one keyboard and starts playing a little Slow Country to distract himself.

“Yeah, but then I realised my folks have already taken the funfair down to Eastbourne and… well none of my bank cards are working… so I was wondering,” he babbles. “I just need money for the train.”

Norm looks like he might have hit him if it wasn't for the height and age difference.

“I'm really sorry, I'd never ask, it's just I'm stuck.” 2D meets Norm’s eye and tries to think of ways to sweeten the deal.

“I could put in a shift?”

“It's Tuesday, it's not getting any busier than this.” 2D deflates but Norm seems pensive. He picks up a box with a grunt and brings it back to the counter. It's full of Gorillaz music books.

“Sign those and a couple of keyboards and you've got a deal.”

2D’s gaze slips back to the harpsichord.

“Throw in the harpsichord as well?”

He knows Norm will be glad to get rid of it but he offers an explanation. “I fancy one, y'know. It's a proper instrument. A proper musician's instrument.”

Norm hands him a couple of twenties from the till.

“If you say so Stu.”

When he gets to the funfair he drops his stuff outside his parents’ caravan, glad to be rid of the weight. He heads off in search of his dad and mentally a weight is lifted too. The familiar lights, sounds and smells bombard his brain making it feel nice and fuzzy. He spots his dad working on the teacups, hair more uniformly grey than he remembers, and gives him a tap on the shoulder. He drops his screwdriver in surprise.

“Stu!”

He helps his dad to his feet and the pair have a quick hug, David barely coming to his chin. 2D grins widely.

“Alright! Fair’s looking busy for a Tuesday. Where's mum?”

“Popped into town for some bits for the caravan.” His dad beams at him. “Look at that tan! Hollywood’s agreeing with you eh?”

“Yeah, LA is great,” 2D says with forced enthusiasm.

“Are the others about?” David asks, glancing around. “You should have told us you were coming.”

“No, it's just me,” 2D says uneasily. “We're having a break.”

“I read in the papers that Murdoc’s in jail.”

“Yeah, he got in some trouble,” 2D says noncommittally.

“He always was a terrible sod.”

2D cringes at the words.

“Yeah, so… I guess we've sort of broken up. The band, I mean.” 2D's unsure why he feels the need to specify. It's strange to formulate and say the words. “The band has broken up.”

David frowns apologetically.

“Couldn't you just get another bassist? You're the star after all.” His dad sees him eyeing a bag of popcorn on one stall and gets it for him. It's the first thing 2D's eaten since his flight and he wolfs it down. “I'm not even sure I know what a bass sounds like, no-one’ll know the difference.”

“I guess so.” 2D mulls the idea over. They walk past a group of teenagers who ask for some photos. His dad looks impressed at the attention and 2D is left buzzing. “Yeah, I guess I could just get another bassist. But, we need some new material first. I was wondering if I could stay here while I work on some stuff?”

“Of course Stu,” his dad smiles. “You know, it'd be great if you worked a few shifts on the rides now and then, really bring the punters in.”

His intentions are good at first. He splits his time between manning the Switchback and sitting in a spare caravan, playing with the harpsichord and a keyboard his dad has been fixing. It rapidly becomes obvious that he is a small picture guy. Like his dad, 2D has always enjoyed tinkering with other people's stuff to make it better or bloopier. He draws a complete blank when trying to come up with his own ideas and settles for adding to and fixing half remembered riffs and refrains Noodle had been writing. It's lonely work and eventually the draw of having fun with girls (lots and lots of girls) and going for drinks on the beach, proves too great. The harpsichord gets covered in his laundry.

His life starts to feel like the Switchback. The girls and the pills blur together. The world gets smaller, shrinking down to the funfair and beach. Those occasions where he forgets where he is and expects to see some drunk bastard from the Potteries telling him he’s got a great idea for an album or a single or a costume slip away and are replaced by Beckys and Chloes and Emmas and Rachels. He hopes that blue hair isn’t genetic or he’s going to have a lot of child support to pay in a few years’ time.

Like all good rides, it can’t last forever. The crowds get smaller as the nights draw in. His dad tells him they’re heading back to Crawley in a fortnight so 2D’s left coming up with other plans. His best mate Mike comes down for the weekend and tries to help while they smoke spliffs on the beach.

“Well, you clearly like it when birds scream and throw their knickers at you,” Mike reasons. “You should do something to do with that.”

“Like what?”

They contemplate, 2D running his fingers through the shingle.

“Gigolo? I dunno, maybe work on a cruise ship? Or, like, in a musical or something?”

“Do you still get lounge singers?” 2D asks the universe. Mike chuckles.

“Fancy wearing some crushed velvet and a roll neck?”

“Birds’d still be interested,” 2D says cockily.

Mike looks reluctant to make his next suggestion. 2D can guess what he’s about to say.

“It’s probably not your thing but-”

*

2D knows he’s made a mistake as soon as they stick his name label on. Glancing up and down the snaking queue all he can see are overly eager, overly polished people. When they send a cameraman past, everyone lurches at the camera, trying to upstage one another. 2D pulls his bucket hat lower over his face and tamps down his urge to take pills until his shame fades.

“Why don’t you go on Pop Idol?” Mike, his dad and several girls had asked him. It was a valid question. He was just a performer. If he couldn’t come up with his own music - and god knows he’d tried - maybe he could just sing Barry Manilow on TV or something.

2D gets halfway down the queue without drawing much attention thanks to the hat and sunglasses. He's becoming complacent about how camouflaged he is when he gets a tap on the arm.

“Can you come with me, sir?”

He doesn’t have a choice since the person tugs on his sleeve and all but drags him to the nearest door.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” 2D bullshits. “I’m not that bloke from the Monkeys, I get that a lot.”

The door turns out to be a fire exit onto a side street. The security lighting casts sinister shadows across Noodle’s face in the dusk. 2D’s catching flies.

“‘D." She tugs his sleeve again. “Please keep walking.”

“How did you find me?”

“I have my ways.”

His brain is completely offline. He sputters while she leads them onto the South Bank. They find an empty bench and 2D drops onto it as he gawps at her. His eyes widen further as the penny drops.

“Am I speaking Japanese?”

She’s at least a foot taller. She looks like a teenager, more solemn and angular. She is a teenager, he realises.

“No,” she replies calmly.

“But, you-wait, have you always been able to-”

“No. I learned English, then I forgot. I’ve remembered again.”

That doesn’t make a lot of sense to 2D but he’s in no position to argue. He screws up his face in thought.

“Do you like, retrowhatsit the stuff we said back then?” He tries rephrasing. “I mean, do you now understand what we were talking about back then? Because we said some pretty rank stuff, sorry.”

“It's okay,” Noodle smiles.

“Fuck me,” 2D says weakly. “Shit, sorry.”

“I’m fourteen.” Noodle gives his leg a pat. “It’s fine, really.”

“Jesus, you’re fourteen.” He shakes his head. “When’d that happen?”

Noodle watches a river bus glide by. 2D, blindsided, casts about for something to say.

“So, um, what’re you up to?”

Noodle looks unimpressed.

“D, you were auditioning for Pop Idol.”

Embarrassment washes over him. He looks around for a distraction and spots a food van.

“They’ve got doughnuts, d’you fancy some?”

She agrees with a narrow of her eyes. He’s back in a few minutes, taking a bite of a too hot doughnut. She takes another from the bag and snaps it in half.

“I have been on a journey of self discovery.”

“Me too.”

“I learned that my history is one of bloodshed, intrigue and ruin.” Noodle punctuates her sentence with a bite of doughnut.

“Oh.” 2D licks sugar from his fingers. “I learned that I like an audience. And monster trucks.”

“I can also play more instruments than I previously recalled.”

“How many?”

“Most of them."

2D’s brain struggles under the weight of the new information. He tucks into another doughnut.

“Wow,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “Oh, I got a harpsichord.”

Noodle shoots him a fond look.

“I have missed you, brother,” she murmurs, leaning against him.

He gives her a watery smile. “I’ve missed you too Noods.” He waits to ensure his voice is even before saying “it was fun, wunit?”

“Past tense?”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t it be past tense?” He tries to keep from hoping. Noodle was undeniably capable but it was too much to expect her to piece together this mess.

She sits up straighter and there’s a stubborness in her tone that has more than a hint of Murdoc about it.

“Because I’m getting the band back together.”

2D feels jittery with relief. He’s not sure if he wants to scream, laugh, cry, jump in the Thames. He looks down, spots that he's still wearing his name badge and rips it off enthusiastically.

“But where’s Russ? I haven’t heard from him at all.”

“Still in LA. He is disturbed. We need to reach out to him.” 2D nods eagerly at the idea.

The next question hangs in the air between them. 2D reluctantly asks it.

“How about a bassist? Hang on, if you’re a multi-instrumentalist now, you could play bass instead. Wait, but then we’d need a guitarist-”

“Murdoc is odious.”

2D understands the word more from context than anything.

“But he is necessary, D. He brings balance.”

“He’s also in jail for 30 years,” 2D mutters, picking up sugar crystals from the bottom of the doughnut bag with a fingertip. “So that’s that eh?”

“I doubt his sentence would hold up under scrutiny,” Noodle says, sounding treble her age. “If he feels inspired to, he’ll find a way out. He’s very determined.”

“So how'd we inspire him?”

“I’m going to tell him I’ve written an album and I’ll release it without him if he doesn’t get to Kong pronto.”

2D can’t argue with Noodle’s plan. He keeps quiet, brow knitted.

“I know your relationship with Murdoc is kind of…” Noodle searches for a word only to switch to Japanese, “koi no yokan. It's complicated,” she says, clearly unhappy with the translation. 2D gives her a dubious look.

“I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”

“Probably not. But I think this had to happen. This crisis, this ripping apart. We will come back together stronger than ever,” she brushes sugar from her hands, “and I’ve got some brilliant demos, if I do say so myself.”

“Have you already been to Kong?”

“Yes,” Noodle suppresses a shiver. “It was crawling with a pestilential disease but I managed to salvage the studio.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?” 2D asks in spite of himself.

“He will. I know it. I have an acoustic number and it needs his lyrics. He will come back.”

“But it has to be different this time. We can’t let Murdoc run shit into the ground again because he’s in charge. I say we become joint band leaders.”

“I say we become band equals,” Noodle counters. 2D grimaces.

“Even Murdoc? Can’t he have a smaller share? He’s already getting all the royalties from the debut.”

“Equals. A new start,” she insists. 2D mulls it over before reluctantly nodding. They shake on it.

“First thing we’ve got to do when we get to Kong,” 2D says when they start towards Liverpool Street, “is come up with something catchier than Clint bloody Eastwood.”

Noodle gives him a sloping smile.

“I’ve got just the thing. You'll love the title.”

*

2D nearly sheds a tear when he steps into the Kong foyer. It’s even worse than he remembers, pipes spitting boiling water, floorboards missing and crass graffiti on the walls. There’s suspiciously red stains on the floor, walls and ceiling that he doesn’t ask about. Noodle’s cut a path through the carnage to the studio and he glides there as though on casters. Noodle turns on the mixing desk, amps and keyboard and the room gives a familiar hum. 2D plays a few notes on the keyboard and it’s like he’s never been away.

Over the coming days they fill each other in on the pieces they’ve been working on. 2D listens intently to Noodle’s 8-track demos and tries a few ideas on the keyboard. He’s surprised every time he leaves the windowless room to discover it’s already night.

He doesn’t show up. 2D doesn’t care.

2D toys around with composing. After a while, he’s confident enough to dig out the stuff he worked on in Eastbourne, expecting to hear that it’s too bombastic, too overwrought-

The comments never come.

He doesn’t show up. Weeks pass. 2D doesn’t care.

It’s storming outside, a regular event at Kong. The lights flicker as the thunder cracks. They don’t hear the screech of car wheels from the studio.

“Are we the last living souls?”

They don’t hear the footsteps pound down the hall.

“Are we the last living souls?”

The studio door is flung wide.

“Are we the-”

He looks ten years older, stubble bordering on beard. He’s wearing what looks like a cape. His voice is like nails on a blackboard.

“Honey, I’m home-” He cuts across himself. “That’s where the bass should come in, by the by.”

His gaze is locked on Noodle, agog at her growth spurt. He tries to mask his surprise by nodding her on.

“C’mon, let’s hear this English then.”

“Hello Murdoc, you look unwell,” she replies.

He’s clearly stunned but settles on a grimace of a smirk.

“Thanks poppet. I’ve been living off porridge and pruno for two years.”

2D’s gripping the edge of his keyboard, waiting for the man to look at him - to look at him for the first time since Mexico. It doesn’t happen. It dawns on 2D that he’s sticking to his promise and refusing to speak to him. 2D seethes to no avail. Eventually, visibly shaking with anger, 2D snaps his fingers at Murdoc’s face. A muscle in Murdoc’s cheek twitches as he addresses Noodle.

“You can get rid of that for a start.” He wafts a hand in 2D’s direction. “Oh, and grab me a copy of NME, I should put in an ad for a new singer.”

At that, 2D has Murdoc by the collar and Murdoc has 2D by the shoulders. Murdoc finally meets his eye. For all the closeness, 2D feels miles apart.

“Get off,” Murdoc grinds out, “it’s silk!”

“Oh, so I’m not invisible?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I wish you’d never gotten out.”

“Yeah, well I wish I’d never bounced my Astra off your skull.”

Their voices get louder and louder.

“Yeah, well-”

“SILENCE!” Noodle bellows into a microphone.

The pair comply out of shock, their hands still at each other’s necks. Noodle gestures for Murdoc to sit and for 2D to go to the keyboard. 2D can see where this is going and his stomach suddenly knots.

“No, Noodle, it’s not ready.”

“You play,” she insists. She points at Murdoc who throws his hands up in surrender. “You listen.”

She walks over to the mixing desk and sets Every Planet We Reach Is Dead playing. 2D closes his eyes but he can still feel Murdoc’s boring into him. They only snap open when he gets to the solo.

His fucking piano solo.

He’s worked on it for months. The string section - which he bloody wrote and Noodle, in all her multi-instrumentalist glory, played - kicks in on the recording. When the song ends it feels like he’s been holding his breath the whole time, his arms tingling and knees ready to buckle. He sits, shoulders slumped, before looking up and fixing Murdoc with a furious look. Murdoc is watching him like he did in Soho, like he would when they played live and he thought 2D hadn’t spotted him.

“Say it,” 2D demands and he’s so angry he’s gone back around to crying, much to his frustration.

“Say what?” Murdoc asks softly.

“Say I’m a fucking performer.” His voice cracks. “Say I’m a fucking performer now, go on.”

Murdoc lets his head sag with a sigh. When he lifts it, he’s sporting a greedy, mile wide smile.

“You fancy being in a band?”

“No,” 2D snaps. “Don’t be funny. Just for once, don’t be a funny fucker.” He rubs roughly at his eyes, embarrassed at his own outburst. “Say-”

Noodle comes over and gives him a hug. He grips her arm gratefully. The girl looks expectantly at Murdoc who, with a dead-eyed scowl, traipses over and loops his arms loosely around the pair of them.

“Say it,” 2D says into Noodle’s shoulder.

“You’re a musician,” Murdoc agrees, quietly. 2D lets his eyes fall shut with a satisfied nod.

After a time, Noodle wriggles away to turn off the mixing desk. The pair are still slumped against one another, 2D sniffling, Murdoc with his eyes closed tight, frowning. Murdoc's eyes snap open first.

“Oi, you’ve tricked me into hugging this tosser!” It’s a few seconds before they actually separate.

“Hey,” 2D mutters, the fight draining out of him.

“Look,” Murdoc says, clearly less jokingly than he intends. “I can give you a hug or I can tell you that song is perfect but you can’t expect both in one day.” He shrugs. “If you’re thinking I turned over a new leaf in jail, you’re sorely mistaken.”

2D’s lips twitch at the word perfect. It’s perfect. It is fucking perfect, even if he couldn’t work the bloody harpsichord in.

Murdoc makes to pick up his bass only for Noodle to hold up a halting hand.

“What?”

“We have some demands.”

“Bloody hell, have you unionised or something?” Murdoc sneers. “What is it?”

“We get a manager,” Noodle insists. Murdoc scoffs.

“It’s waste of m-”

“We can’t have a repeat of Tijuana,” 2D adds. Murdoc catches his eye and there’s something hidden in his expression.

“We can’t,” Murdoc agrees, tone guarded. It’s clear they’re talking at cross-purposes. “Alright, fine. Less for me to do.”

“We all get writing credits-” before Murdoc can protest, Noodle adds, “I have basically written the album. Take or leave it.”

“Alright, alright. Anything else?” 2D and Noodle look at one another then shake their heads. “Well, I’ve got one: I want a song, me singing and everything.”

“That’s gonna be terrible,” 2D grimaces. Murdoc smirks back.

“That’s the deal. We on?” Murdoc’s fingers are itching towards his bass.

“Deal,” Noodle says. 2D gives a little nod. Murdoc snatches up his bass, slinging the strap over his back with a groan of relief that borders on obscene.

“First order of business,” he says as he tunes a string, flat from lack of use, “we put some bass on that “souls” song you were playing. Second order of business, we get our biggest butterfly net and go get our drummer back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I love Every Planet We Reach Is Dead and so should you.


	6. 2005 - 2006

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band goes on a detour. The helicopters circle. Warnings for drug use, language, sex and character death. Unbetaed.

“Good morning folks, this is WKMD, coming at you bright and early for that drive time commute. Looks like another scorcher out there today.”

“W-”

“Don't go touching those dials because boy do we have some aural treats in store for you. That's right, we've got saviours of music and mankind, Gorillaz, right here in the studio, ready to transform your life-”

“Yes, thank-”

“All the way from Crawley New Town in olde England, Mr 2D is tickling the ivories and aren't you lucky this is radio so you can't see what a bag of crap tied around the middle he's looking-”

“Hey-”

“From Osaka, international woman of mystery and foremost guitarist of her generation, young Noodle on the axe. Doesn't even bother with a surname, how cool is that?”

“Do we cut to commerc-”

“Fellow patriot and hip hop aficionado, big man from Brooklyn Russel Hobbs is laying down the beat. And then, you lucky ducks, you've got me. The one, the only, Murdoc Faust Niccals, from the rotten borough of Stokely upon the Trentshire, playing Satan's actual bass guitar and wearing nothing but my pants - that's underpants to you - a lovely silk cape and a smile.”

With that, he's out of breath. Everyone in the studio stares, momentarily speechless. The host is the first to recover.

“Wow, um, that's some intro. This is actually KHNT 108 and you heard right: Gorillaz are here live-”

“I just said all this,” Murdoc mutters to Russel, leaning away from the microphone. Russel looks back, brow creased.

“Yeah, at a hundred miles an hour. How high are you?”

“I've got a mild groove on,” Murdoc dismisses. His heart feels ready to claw its way out of his chest and he wants to run a casual marathon. Speed is a hell of a drug.

“So what's this song called-?”

Murdoc snaps back to attention and leans in to the microphone but 2D beats him to it.

“This is our new tune, Feel Good Incorporated.”

Russel had tabled the idea of band meetings on his return to Kong, with “band equals” 2D and Noodle unsurprisingly approving and outvoting Murdoc on the proposal. The Detour was one of Russel's ideas at the first meeting, sat around Kong’s decimated kitchen table.

Thanks to certain events, Russel had pointed out (while they all looked at Murdoc), the band's finances were still dire. A radio station tour, playing new material and doing interviews, was the cheapest promotion they could do that would stretch the length and breadth of America. Murdoc had voted against the motion because he hadn't come up with it. He got voted down. The only concession he was able to negotiate was keeping their meetings strictly band only, with Noodle filling in their manager - Timmy? Tommy? - on any developments.

The others show no sign of getting bored of band meetings on Detour and Noodle springs them on Murdoc so he can't “accidentally” be elsewhere. They're in an IHOP in the Midwest when Noodle pauses mid pancakes to rap the table with her knuckles. Murdoc is torn between despair and pride.

“Band meeting everyone. I've got a few items unless anyone else wants to start.”

“Gosh, let me think,” Murdoc says sarcastically. 2D ignores him and chips in.

“Nothing for me Noods. Russ?”

“Nothing, go ahead Noodle.”

“Thank you. First item: Jimmy asked me to remind everyone that next week we'll start playing our US tour dates.” The phrase still brings Murdoc out in hives so he scowls into his coffee. “There will be days where we'll be performing at night after having performed on the radio that morning so we're going to be busy.”

“Dually noted,” 2D nods. Murdoc sends him a withering look.

“Duly.”

“Eh?”

“It's- nevermind.”

Noodle waits for them to settle down before continuing.

“Second item: treatments for the remaining music videos. I've been working on storyboards and have shared these with you all. I have received feedback from the majority of the band.” Murdoc misses totalitarian rule. “I was therefore going to discuss booking shoots with Jimmy. Again, we will need to slot these into our schedule later this year.”

“They're really good,” 2D agrees. “Go ahead Noodle. Seconded.”

“We're barely in any of them,” Murdoc points out, “what kind of frontman are you if you're not even in the videos? We should dock your pay.”

“Thirded,” Russel says, clearly just to piss Murdoc off. “No-one needs to see you shaking your ass after Feel Good, Murdoc.”

“It's called giving the people what they want Russ, give it a go sometime,” Murdoc gripes. “Fine. I don't care - less work for me to do.” He's too much of a back seat driver to keep from adding, “the El Mañana one’s a bit dark. I get that it follows on from Feel Good but I barely got the plot of that one.”

“It's a metaphor,” 2D says.

“Cleared that up genius,” Murdoc sneers. “And what's with all the helicopter bollocks?”

“Unless you have any fundamental concerns,” Noodle cuts across him sharply, “I think we are agreed. Does anyone have any other business?”

The band shakes their heads and finishes their breakfasts, Murdoc making a quick pit stop in the bathroom to top up his high before they get back in their respective tour buses and set off for the next station.

Feel Good gets released mid-Detour and its impact is seismic by comparison to Clint Eastwood. Practically overnight the band becomes a household name in America and they can't go anywhere without someone yelling about windmills or doing the laugh. With the increased interest and activity, Murdoc never gets around to asking Noodle if the helicopters which now lurk at every other tour stop inspired the music video or if the music video somehow attracted the helicopters.

Tour dates intersperse the Detour dates until they're performing most days, sometimes twice a day. It feels like Groundhog Day when identical DJs ask the same dull questions. How did they write Demon Days? What is Feel Good about? Why is it called Clint Eastwood? Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Fortunately, speed keeps Murdoc full of answers. In one southern state a DJ asks if there's any tension between him and 2D. The band looks at the pair, who consider each other coolly.

“No, we're firm friends, why?” Murdoc says with negative levels of enthusiasm.

“You've got a big personality for a bassist,” the DJ says.

“He's got a big personality period,” Russel adds. Murdoc takes a deep breath and the others brace themselves.

“So, what, bass is boring?” Murdoc leans closer to the pop filter, eyeballing the uncomfortable looking DJ. “You ever played a bass?”

“I can't say I have.”

“Give it a go then get back to me, kid. It's hard, it's like the glue that holds the song together. I've got a big personality because I’ve got a big bloody job. People know it as well: I've got some nutjob following me with a sawn off shotgun. Bloke’s obsessed with me, wants to be in the band-”

2D talks over him at that.

“There's tension,” 2D agrees bluntly, “because he might play this difficult instrument or whatever but I'm the frontman.” Russel is holding Murdoc’s shoulder and he's unsure if it's because he actually lurched at 2D or if he just looked like he might. “The girls like me and - have you heard White Light?”

“Is that the song about alcohol on your new album?”

“Yes,” Noodle agrees. “A cautionary tale.”

“Imagine an album full of that “singing”. So, I guess I'm saying there's tension because I've got the job he wants.”

Murdoc is ready to send the airwaves blue when, after a moment of consideration, 2D adds, “but, I wouldn't be here if he hadn't crashed his car into my head,” it's about as backhanded a compliment as he could give.

“Yeah, you owe me your soul,” Murdoc riffs, trying to keep from interrogating 2D on how he's so terrible and when he plans on booting Murdoc out of his own band.

“Whatever,” 2D mutters into the microphone. He's looking right at Murdoc and Murdoc is convinced he's going to say Tijuana Tijuana Tijuana. His mouth goes dry at the prospect. Following their set, Murdoc heads back to his bus, trailed by the rest of the band. They follow him in, despite his protests.

“Don't you dare say “band meet-”.”

“Band meeting,” Noodle agrees, sitting on the edge of one chair. Russel and 2D remain standing, looking around at the squalor with open distaste.

“Unless Russel and 2D have any items-” they shake their heads. “Item one: Murdoc’s spiralling drug addiction.”

“I'm off for a piss.” Russel grabs Murdoc's arm to keep him from leaving and Murdoc glowers. “What, should I just piss myself?”

“Five minutes,” Russel growls. Murdoc sinks back into a chair with a melodramatic sigh.

“It's not spiralling,” he points out. “Do you really think I was teetotal for the debut? I haven't been sober since the eighties.”

“Murdoc, you may not be able to see it,” Noodle says, sounding maddeningly reasonable, “but you are becoming increasingly erratic and paranoid.”

“It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you,” he jokes.

“Yesterday, you said that some woman tried to kill you at the Detroit gig because she was having your baby,” Russel starts.

“Is that really that unlikely?”

“And you just said some bloke with a shotgun was following you,” 2D says.

“So what? It'll get people talking about us.”

“But none of it's true.”

Murdoc sits there glaring at his own knees. He bites down on any comment about the helicopter blades he can hear overhead and how he can tell Noodle has heard them too by the tension in her shoulders.

“You done?”

“We've agreed that until you become more stable, you need to share a bus.” Noodle reads his mind. “Groupies don't count.”

Murdoc can already tell where this is going.

“And what lucky bugger is-” 2D’s hand has already gone up.

“Noodle's a teenage girl and Russ is still recovering from LA,” 2D says sourly. “I'm the only who can handle your bollocks.”

“Have I told you how much I love your new tough guy attitude?” Murdoc scowls.

“Not today.” 

A couple of roadies are moving 2D’s suitcases, keyboards and movie posters in as they speak.

“Unless there's any other business,” Noodle asks but Murdoc is already shooing her and Russel out. The last of the roadies leave and he's left glowering at 2D. When 2D just returns the look blandly, Murdoc goes ahead and finds a baggie of speed and rubs some on his gums right in front of him. 2D shakes his head and goes about setting up one of his keyboards in the living room.

“Getting an addict to babysit another addict is a real stroke of genius, by the way,” Murdoc sneers.

“I have a prescription,” 2D says guardedly.

“Oh come off it.”

Murdoc stalks after him as 2D looks around the spare bedroom, picking up a few abandoned items of clothing with the tips of his fingers and throwing them out the door. Murdoc leans in the doorway, dodging the pants, socks and bras as they fly past.

“Look, babysitting or no, I'm going to be fucking lots of birds in there,” Murdoc says, nodding to the room next door. “Walls are paper thin, you might want to buy some earplugs.”

2D's expression flickers, then he shrugs. “My job's to keep you alive. I don't care what you get up to.”

The first few nights are passed in uncomfortable silence. Murdoc barely sleeps thanks to his suspicion that 2D is going to murder him in his bed. One night, he hears the pad of sneakers in the hall and the rustle of a jacket. He creeps from his bed and throws open the door to see 2D, who jumps at the commotion.

“What’re you up to?” Murdoc asks, eyes narrowed.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“You thought wrong. What's going on?”

2D gives a frustrated shrug. “I'm going out. We’re here for a couple of nights, I want to go clubbing.”

Murdoc is already pulling on some jeans and a black T-shirt, to 2D's apparent despair.

“What’re you doing?”

“Coming with you,” Murdoc says. “You're meant to be keeping an eye on me.”

“Just go back to sleep.”

“No no, I'm up now, c’mon club kid, where're we going?”

It happens a few times over the following weeks and 2D eventually gives up trying to slip away. They get a cab to the closest club, usually some electronic shite except for that one night in Oregon when Murdoc talks 2D around to a metal night. They separate as soon as they're in the club where they spend the evening macking on women and avoiding each other completely. They make their way back to the bus separately, pile into their separate bedrooms and -

The wall might as well not be there. The groans and sounds of skin on skin are as clear as day. There's nights when they're both fucking some girl and Murdoc can hear 2D’s conquest say how she can hear everything happening next door. There's nights when Murdoc brings a girl back and 2D doesn't and he can hear how 2D’s breath hitches. There's nights when 2D brings someone back and Murdoc leans against the dividing wall and jerks off, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent moan.

When the morning comes they're back to being a band and shilling their album at the next radio station. In Seattle, the DJ asks the usual rubbish and Murdoc looks at the hickey on 2D’s neck while 2D looks at the DJ, clearly aware of the attention.

Murdoc comes to his senses when the DJ says she’d heard about their recent troubles.

“Groupies getting out of control,” Murdoc agrees, knee-jerk. “Ladies there's plenty to go around.”

“I was thinking more about Jacob Niccals." Murdoc’s head snaps up. “Or is it Sebastian?”

“It depends who's asking,” he says instinctively. “What's he got to do-”

“For our listeners' benefit that is Murdoc’s father-”

“For your listeners’ benefit why don't you play some fucking music.” The producer is desperately signaling for him to stop swearing.

“I only ask because a British newspaper recently had an exclusive interview with your father.”

Murdoc hates how off guard he's caught. He can feel the band watching him. For once in his life, he keeps his gob shut.

“He talks about how he helped you get your start in show business, how you owe him money for backing you when you started out and how you've abandoned him in his old age.”

Murdoc stares into middle distance.

“Is there anything you'd like to say to your father?”

He snaps out of his reverie.

“Die you ugly old cun-”

They go to commercial break.

Murdoc plays their set on autopilot before making a beeline for Noodle’s bus with its swanky internet hookup and laptop. He finds the article online. It's long, damning and true. There's a list of menial jobs he’s had, a description of his awkward school years, names of all his failed bands, everything.

“Fuck off,” he snaps when the door opens.

“Fuck off, that's my computer,” Noodle counters. Murdoc shuts the laptop lid.

“What’ve I said about swearing?”

“Don't fucking do it,” Noodle says, not missing a beat. Murdoc gives her a smile.

“Set you up for that.”

“Why are you so shaken?” she asks, never one to beat around the bush. Murdoc bristles.

“I'm not shaken, fuck off,” he retorts. The article had said Jacob was looking for him. He wasn't exactly hard to find, what with their tour dates. Murdoc considers googling how to order a hit, since that was something famous people could apparently do, if movies were anything to go by.

“Murdoc, he's not going to track you down,” Noodle says with her usual intuition. “He clearly did the interview for the money.”

“Have you read it?”

Noodle nods.

“I only worked at McDonald's for a week,” he says defensively. “I stole the lead off church roofs for longer than that.” Murdoc searches for a distraction and it comes in the form of a helicopter, visible through one window. Noodle spots it too and draws the shade. Murdoc fixes her with a look.

“They're following you, aren't they?”

She keeps quiet. He gets angrier.

“You're making me out to be some lunatic but you've got fucking helicopters following you. And that El Mañana treatment, it's like you're trying to make out that you've died.”

Noodle yanks her laptop off his lap and busies herself with placing it on one shelf alongside several neatly arranged books and magazines.

“Gone deaf?”

“The less you know, the better,” she says ominously.

“Noodle, you're filming the sodding thing-”

“Tomorrow.”

“If it's some mad scheme to fake your death or avoid some assassins or I don't fucking know, you should tell me, I'm your-”

“What?” she challenges, voice steely. Murdoc stumbles on his answer. He is, ridiculously, her legal guardian. As former band leader and bank account holder, it had somehow seemed like the best option. “You're not my father.”

“Good, because I'd be shit,” he lashes out. “Fine, don't tell me. None of you tell me a bloody thing about the fucking band I created, why would you start now? Pretend to die in a fire, actually die, do whatever you want.”

“Get out of my bus,” Noodle insists. Murdoc pushes past her, feeling worse than he ever has after fighting with 2D or Russel. An obnoxious amount of speed and whiskey don’t improve his mood so much as distract him. When 2D appears back at the bus, Murdoc’s already at the door. He throw 2D his keys. The man fumbles them and shoots him a puzzled look.

“We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“Your choice, I don't care,” Murdoc says, shoving 2D out the door as he makes to ring a taxi. “A club. Electronica, dance, I don't care. Just out.”

They wind up at some small electronica place near Capitol Hill. 2D, clearly baffled by Murdoc's mood, helps himself to more pills than usual until he's loose tongued and limbed. Murdoc is too tense to dance and camps out in a booth, ordering shot after shot of tequila while 2D dances close enough to watch. The man dances by himself and with girls, lost in the music. He flops into the booth when they change DJ and takes some more pills with a boilermaker.

“Having fun?” Murdoc asks over the music. 2D’s expression is glazed thanks to the pills but his smile is beatific.

“Yeah. You not gonna dance?”

“Wouldn't know where to begin with this shit,” Murdoc says. “Bagged anyone?”

“I'm not looking to shag anyone, I just want to dance,” 2D says unconvincingly.

Murdoc likes to pretend he doesn't know what he's doing when he tells 2D, “well I am. I'm going to find some bird and fuck off. See you back at the bus.”

He can see the cogs turning in 2D’s addled brain. Sure enough, the girl's got his cock in her mouth when Murdoc hears 2D creep back onto the bus and into his bedroom.

Murdoc’s leaning against the shared wall, murmuring his encouragement to the girl. He practically feels 2D lean against the other side of the wall. He hears the snick of a zip. Murdoc groans. He hears one echoed and his hands twitch in the girl’s hair. There's another choked breath through the wall. He pushes the girl way.

“Wh-” she's clearly stunned as he pulls her to her feet. “What's going on?”

“I'm too high, I can't-” Murdoc babbles. She stumbles out the front door as he grabs her shoes, shoving them at her.

“What the fuck?”

“You've got to go, just go, go,” he locks the door hastily and turns to see 2D, flushed, hand around his cock. Murdoc rushes at him, ignoring the girl rapping at the door and yelling.

They make for Murdoc’s bedroom, shedding clothes as they go. Murdoc falls back on the bed and drags 2D down with him.

“You were eavesdropping,” Murdoc says hoarsely. “You perve.”

2D’s hands rove over Murdoc's practically concave chest as he positions himself on top of him.

“You wanted me to,” 2D says, voice low. “Tart.”

It's like a jolt of electricity straight to Murdoc's groin. He groans, his hands finding 2D's arse and squeezing. 2D’s hips snap forward, cock pressing against Murdoc’s hip.

“What?” Murdoc asks, voice thick.

2D clocks his reaction, repositioning himself so that their cocks are flush against one another and grinding down.

“You're,” the words coincide with his thrusts, “a tart.”

Murdoc nods along, clutching at 2D’s arse.

“Aren't you?” 2D presses, panting.

“Yeah.”

“Going after all those girls when all you want-”

Murdoc buries his face in 2D’s shoulder, biting down on the faded hickey. 2D’s breath catches and the rhythm of his hips turns frantic.

“You little slut.”

Murdoc comes with a moan against 2D’s shoulder.

“You… you sl-” 2D gives up on words, eyes closed as he rides out his orgasm, grinding down against Murdoc.

For a while, they stay silent, Murdoc finding a towel on the floor and cleaning them up before laying inches from 2D. When the lethargy of his orgasm slips away Murdoc takes another hit and knows instantly that it isn't going to sit well with him. He watches 2D with suspicion as he makes to get off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm just looking for my pills.”

“They're over there, your jeans are over there,” Murdoc gestures. He doesn't buy it. “Why would you look over here?”

“I didn't see where my jeans went.”

“Are you looking for my phone? For my drugs?”

“Why would I want those?”

Murdoc can't put into words the horror clawing at him. He can't explain, but that doesn't matter.

“Because you're keeping tabs on me.” Contacting Jacob, Murdoc doesn't say. “Being a frontman and keeping me in check.”

Murdoc makes a grab for his own clothes to keep them out of 2D’s reach. If 2D’s expression is anything to go by, he's speaking a mile a minute.

“Murdoc, you need to calm down.” 2D is clearly too high to keep up with developments. “You've just taken too much.”

“I'm calm, I'm fucking calm, I just can't handle you trying to weasel your way into my bus, into my stuff, into my band. You're stealing my band and it's my band, alright, not yours, not Noodle’s or Russ’s.” Murdoc can feel the walls watching. The helicopter blades are turning overhead. “And you hate me, don't you, you hate me, you-”

2D climbs back on the bed and wraps his arms around him. It's probably the worst thing he could do. Murdoc thrashes against him until 2D grips him harder, half irritably, half concerned.

“I'm not going,” 2D says and Murdoc can’t believe him. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Never?” he asks, stopping moving so he can fix 2D with an intense stare. 2D looks uneasy.

“Yeah. I'm never going,” 2D clearly feels Murdoc going slacker in his arms. The words become a litany until they both pass out.

“I'm never leaving.”

“Never?”

“Never. I'm never leaving.”

They wake up to both of their mobiles ringing and Jimmy storming into the bedroom, eyes wide. They don't have time to pull apart or offer any explanation for their compromising positions. Jimmy clearly doesn't care.

“You need to come with me,” the man insists.

“What's wrong?” 2D asks, pulling on his clothes in a daze.

The helicopters are silent. Murdoc goes cold with horror. He busies himself with finding the rest of his drugs and taking them in quick succession, washed down with half a bottle of vodka, before pulling on his clothes and staggering out the door.

They're driven to the filming location. Murdoc is so high he struggles to unbuckle his seat belt and practically falls out of the car. Russel is already there, silent and ashen. 2D’s eyes widen at the smoke plume coming from the sea.

“Oh my god,” he says, voice choked. “Oh my god. Oh my g-”

Murdoc throws up. He's so high he makes an attempt to head towards the wreckage, held back by a trembling 2D.

Later, he drinks enough that he dreams he's descending into hell, trying to get her back. It's so dark he chokes on it. Eyes track his progress, judging and watching, and he knows he belongs down there. He thinks he sees her, just out of reach. A bank of fire rises up between them.

There is only fire.

And then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having consulted various sources I came to the conclusion that El Mañana makes no sense so I just made up my own way through.


	7. 1976/2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two funerals and a Boogieman. 
> 
> Warnings for child abuse (verbal and physical) and general bleakness. Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for a style 180. Largely Murdoc POV but briefly 2D POV. Somewhat non-chronological.

The problem with being raised by a drunk goth is you get lumbered with lots of superstitious, witchy bollocks.

“If you don't behave,” Jacob slurs, “the Boogieman will come and take you away.”

Murdoc is too busy watching Patti Smith on the Old Grey Whistle Test to respond.

“YOU'LL LISTEN WHEN YOU'RE SPOKEN TO, YOU LITTLE OIK!” Jacob bellows. Murdoc pivots from the television set to look at him.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” he asks.

“Eh?”

“That he'll take me away,” Murdoc explains and dodges the beer can when it's thrown. It bounces off Patti Smith’s head.

When he's been drinking absinthe, Jacob's warnings get more florid.

“If you think I'm bad,” Jacob says as Murdoc lugs him back from the pub, “the Boogieman is worse. Y’know what he's made of?”

Murdoc just drags him by the collar of his ridiculous velvet cape.

“He's made of all the terrible bits of all the horrible people in the world,” Jacob says dramatically, wafting his hands, “and if you're not careful, he'll come and get you, you ungrateful little sod.”

Murdoc can already sense the “unless” as he pours Jacob onto the sofa, face down.

“Unless you nick me some fags from the offie.”

Murdoc makes sure to pocket a pack for himself as well. He throws one at Jacob's prone body when he gets back to the house.

“What'd I do to deserve a little shit like you?” Jacob mutters into the sofa arm. Murdoc doesn't bother to answer.

*

Murdoc sees the Boogieman at the crash site. Tall, thin and cloaked, it stares right at him and beckons with the crook of a finger. 2D holds him back from the wreckage.

*

_Melody Express_

_Stuart Pot: Life after death_

_It's a grim January morning and Stuart Pot - formerly 2D - is dressed in an uncharacteristically nondescript blue jumper and jeans. Pot looks worn, his famous eight ball eye fractures dull in the miserable weather. His equally iconic azure hair seems out of place in the gloom of The Drunken Monkey in Soho._

_Pot is polite but distracted as he drinks his lemonade. Once the frontman of Gorillaz, one of the world's biggest bands, he's now studying remotely for a law degree. “It's hard but it's mostly just being pedantic,” he says. "I never went to university and I thought it might be interesting. It's actually pretty boring”._

_In 2001, Gorillaz released their now infamous debut to rave reviews, exploding into the limelight with their antics and anthems (Clint Eastwood, 19-2000). Their follow up, Demon Days, showcased a darker message and sound and featured smash hits Feel Good Inc and Dirty Harry. It was unfathomable to the band, music industry and fans alike when Gorillaz’s wunderkind guitarist, the mononymous Noodle, died in a freak accident while filming the music video for Demon Days’ final single, El Mañana._

_It's rapidly approaching the second anniversary of the horrific accident and it's clearly weighing heavily on Pot’s mind._

_“I still expect to see her,” Pot says. “It doesn't feel real. It doesn't help that there's all these people online who reckon it was a hoax.”_

_That lack of finality, combined with bass player Murdoc Niccals’ increasingly surreal behaviour, means there is no possibility of a reunion any time soon. Pot’s manager requests that we ask no further questions about Niccals out of respect for Noodle and the surviving band members._

_Drummer Russel Hobbs has also retreated from public life. Hobbs was renowned for channelling the spirit of several friends who were tragically murdered in a drive-by shooting in New York and for creating a legendary drum machine containing an inordinate number of beats. Could Hobbs create a similar machine for guitar samples, if replacing Noodle doesn't feel right?_

_“He does have software that creates and stores guitar and bass samples,” Pot agrees, “but it's not the same. It's never going to be the same. Noodle had such big ideas, Russel would lay down such amazing beats and I'd just fart around with a bit of synth. That's all gone now. There's no point. I haven't listened to the music since. I can't. I don't listen to much music full stop”._

_Pot almost borders on rude, his grief is so raw. He finishes his drink and looks like he is willing the interview to end. Why agree to an interview if things are so painful? Most people do interviews to promote a new album or project, after all. Pot takes his time before answering._

_“There was nothing to bury, after the accident,” Pot says. “We had a service but there were no remains so we never got closure. There's always going to be that seed of doubt in my brain. I guess what I'm trying to say is, if there's any chance at all you're still out there: Noodle, please come home”._

*

They look down at the freshly turned earth on top of the grave. After a time, in unspoken agreement, they unzip and urinate on the plot. Murdoc lights a cigarette when they've finished and Hannibal nicks it.

“Thank fuck and good riddance,” Hannibal says. “Eighty eight. How the fuck’d he manage that?”

“Evil’s supposed to be incarnate, disappointed he didn't outlive us,” Murdoc mutters as he lights another cigarette. It's a strange sensation, knowing that the one thing that connected them is six feet below their steaming piss. It's always been obvious that they're half brothers anyway, if Hannibal’s six foot, brick shit house build was anything to go by. Jacob had never confirmed one way or the other.

“When'd he actually die?”

“Couple months back I think,” Hannibal shrugs. “I was on holiday.”

“You were in jail.”

“S’what I said,” Hannibal flicks ash onto the grave. “Bit different to that other funeral you went to couple years back.”

Murdoc doesn't respond. Hannibal doubles down.

“All those celebrities.”

“I wasn't there.”

“Yeah you were,” Hannibal says, gleefully. “You threw up and fell asleep, in that order.”

Murdoc starts walking out of the cemetery, not checking to see if Hannibal is following. The thud of his size 14 shoes says he is.

“You still talk to the others?”

Murdoc fishes the keys to Stylo out of his leather jacket and unlocks the driver’s side door. Hannibal keeps him from opening it with one hand. Even in his sixties, Hannibal remains treble Murdoc’s strength so Murdoc gives him a bored but expectant look.

“I threw up and fell asleep at the wake for our teenaged guitarist and you're asking if they still talk to me.”

Hannibal gives an ambivalent nod before asking, “he's a poofter, the southern pansy one, in’t he?”

“Why, you looking for a boyfriend?” Murdoc retorts. “Or’re you after a story?”

Hannibal chuckles.

“You still sore about that interview Jacob did? That were years ago. And you were a shit Santa, they should have made you an elf-”

“Have the house,” Murdoc interrupts. Hannibal rolls his eyes.

“It was council owned, twat, they've already given it someone else.”

“Right,” Murdoc gestures to the car. Reluctantly, Hannibal lets Murdoc open the door. He reaches over to the glove compartment and unearths a chequebook and a pen. Leaning against the car, Murdoc scrawls on the first blank cheque, tears it out and hands it to Hannibal. The man takes it, eyes it, looks back at Murdoc.

“Fuck off.”

“Alright, give it back then,” Hannibal holds the cheque overhead when Murdoc makes to pluck it from his hand.

“Fuck off, this is a joke, isn't it?”

Murdoc puts the chequebook back and climbs into Stylo. He closes the door, winds down the window and looks up at Hannibal, who's torn between stunned and smirking.

“Didn't your studio burn down last year?”

“Yeah, tragic accident that,” Murdoc agrees. He looks Hannibal square in the eye.

“Hannibal.”

“Murdoc.”

Murdoc purses his mouth and considers his words.

“Thank you for making me listen to Lee Perry.”

Hannibal nods uncomfortably.

“After you've cashed that,” Murdoc starts the engine, “never contact me ever again.”

He pulls out of the car park and heads for the A road. The pile of clothes in the backseat moves. She sits up.

“Where are we going?”

“The end of the world, sprog.”

*

Jacob stumbles back into the house some time after midnight and crashes into Murdoc’s bedroom.

“You behavin’?" he demands.

Murdoc blinks the sleep from his eyes with a grumble. The white light from the security light outside shines through the bare window and casts Jacob's spindly shadow up the wall.

“I was sleeping, how much misbehaving can I do sleeping?”

“Smart arse. He'll get you." When Murdoc doesn't press him for an explanation, Jacob drops heavily onto the foot of his mattress, spilling what smells like rum over it and the floor.

“Who?”

“The Boogieman,” Jacob belches, flourishing one hand in an apparently spooky gesture.

“Right. And what’ll he do with me?” Murdoc asks absentmindedly.

“He'll become you. You'll become him. You'll.” Jacob loses his train of thought. “Did you learn that new song?”

“Yes.”

“Song and dance?”

“Yes.”

Jacob clambers to his feet, leaving the near empty bottle on the mattress.

“If you didn't I'll give you a proper hiding.”

“I said I learned it,” Murdoc mutters, adding for what it's worth, “I've got school tomorrow.”

“And you'll still be thick as pig shit in the morning, face ache,” Jacob sneers from the doorway. He shoots a look over his shoulder as he goes.

“If you don't win that talent show, the Boogieman’ll hear about it.”

Once Jacob’s bedroom door is shut, Murdoc reaches for the rum bottle and drains what's left. It doesn't take him long to fall back to sleep.

*

The Boogieman watches as he installs Russel’s software. The Boogieman watches as She boots up.

The Boogieman is faceless but Murdoc knows it's smiling when She opens her eyes.

*

_EMZ online_

_EXCLUSIVE: Gorillaz band leader buys mystery island_

_An insider has revealed that, following the destruction of Gorillaz’s old studio in Essex by fire, bassist Murdoc Niccals has used the whopping seven figure insurance payout to buy a private island in an unknown location._

_Our source explained that the former studio was highly valued thanks to the band's high tech recording equipment and bizarre extras including amphibious cars and robot body doubles the band had planned to use as stuntmen in ambitious music videos._

_A source close to Niccals confirmed EMZ's previous reports that the bassist is becoming increasingly delusional. After years of substance abuse, the bassist has been sighted talking to himself and negotiating dodgy business deals in the Midlands._

_It is almost two years since the tragic accident which killed the band's young guitarist Noodle. There are no signs of a new Gorillaz line up or new releases. A former groupie claims that this is because Niccals and lead singer 2D (now going by his previous name of Stuart Pot) had a tumultuous and sometimes sexual relationship which put a strain on the band. Gorillaz’s manager, Jimmy Manson, dismissed the claims when asked for comment._

_*_

Murdoc waits until a week before the anniversary to send the text. The Boogieman approves. He approves. She approves because that's how he programmed her.

Literally seconds later, his phone rings. He holds his breath as he accepts the call.

“If this is a joke,” 2D says and his voice has that same hoarse horror it had when they first saw the wreckage. “If all of this is a joke, I'll have you arrested. I'll sue you. I've done a law degree, I-”

Murdoc’s left speechless. He hands the phone to her and She takes it readily.

“Hello 2D.”

He can hear 2D’s voice hitch.

“Is this a joke?” 2D repeats pleadingly. “Noodle, please don't let this be a joke.”

“2D, it's me. I am okay,” She assures him. “I was in danger but it's safe enough for me to make contact now. 2D, you must meet me. It’s been so long.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm with Murdoc.” Before 2D can question, She continues, “I found him first. He’s unwell. You need to come to us 2D, please.”

“Is the line bad, you sound crackly.”

“Yes,” She agrees. “You must come here. Please.”

“What's the address?”

“I will text you. When can you get here?”

“Tonight. I'll set off as soon as you tell me.”

“That's great, that's excel-el-lectric-trictrictric-”

Murdoc yanks the phone away and ends the call while She twitches and sparks. He taps out a text, hands shaking.

The Boogieman stands at 2D’s back as he approaches Stylo, hours later, in the Tesco car park in Nottingham. The frown on 2D's face says the location’s significance isn't lost on him. When he spots her in the backseat, his face lights up beautifully. He runs to the car, yanks open the door and climbs in beside her.

As soon as he looks into her not quite right eyes, at her not quite right smile, Murdoc locks the doors.

“Wh-”

Murdoc catches 2D’s eye in the rearview mirror and knows he's done something irrevocable. He slams his foot on the accelerator. The Boogieman follows.

*

Stuart’s eyes blink open. His mind is several steps behind.

Everywhere, pink.

He retches on the thick, acrid air. As he makes to stand, his hand touches something wet. He looks down.

Baby wipes plastic bags condoms coat hangers Lego packing peanuts toy soldiers buttons. Filth. It all laps against the shore, retreats, laps against the shore, retreats.

The shore.

He turns drunkenly and sees ocean.

He turns again and sees ocean.

He turns again and sees:

Murdoc, face sallow and eyes wild, spreading his arms and gesturing to what looks like Tracy Island perched on top of a hot pink rubbish tip. Stuart can only stare. Murdoc breaks the silence.

“Welcome to the world of the Plastic Beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was literally the most logical thing I could concoct to get to Plastic Beach. Thank you for any and all comments, I really appreciate them.


	8. 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoc hosts the most popular radio show in Point Nemo. 2D writes some hits. Everyone has a terrible time. 
> 
> Warnings for violence, major substance abuse (these guys have like one functional kidney and half a functional liver between them), probable mental illness and suicidal actions/ideation. Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't already clear: I don't think there's anything romantic about these two and while their relationship is interesting, it's very unhealthy. Switches between Murdoc and 2D POV.

The lights flicker in the lighthouse. Noodle gives the beacon a corrective thud with the butt of her gun and goes back to her patrol. Murdoc gives her a fond smile and pulls the microphone closer.

“We've been on quite the musical journey today, haven’t we listeners, all the way from Prince Charming to King Tubby. I reckon it’s time for the weather, so let’s have a looksee.” He scoots his executive chair - battered, stinking of salt, another item salvaged from the sea - over to the wraparound window. He peers out before creeping back to the desk. “S’another wet one folks. It’s all muggy and miserable and midnight - though I suppose that last one’s more a time than a weather condition, eh?”

Murdoc picks up the microphone, clambers from his chair and leans against one foggy window. He gestures at Noodle, who pauses in her latest sweep of the lighthouse to pass him a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a swig with a sound of relief.

“That’s better. Mm, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, the weather’s terrible. The food’s terrible. The beach’s terrible. It’s all terrible here, faithful listeners,” he slurs, catching sight of what might be boats in the distance. He jabs at them and Noodle fires a few potshots out the window.

“It’s cold and damp and I’m all alone, just like that great old song of ours. Remember that one? What a classic. We even played that at Manchester Opera House.” He crumples to a sitting position on the floor, rum bottle leaning precariously against one leg. “Can you imagine it, yours truly, a night at the opera? Oh lala." He runs a hand over his face to rouse himself. “But I’m a million miles from Madchester now - well, that’s an exaggeration. If you wanna get technical, I’m 48 degrees south, 123 degrees west. That’s right, I’m coming at you all the way from Point Nemo! The end of the world as we know it, and y’know what, I feel fine.”

Murdoc winds up on his back in a bid to keep the world from spinning. It doesn’t work.

“So, why would muggins move somewhere so desolate when I already lived in Essex?” He dissolves into laughter before sobering. “It’s a good question, isn’t it? Truth of the matter is I’d done a few too many dodgy business deals, got some wrong uns on my tail and where better to lie low than the end of the world?”

He accidentally slops rum down his striped shirtfront before setting the bottle and microphone down beside to him, angling his face towards the microphone.

“That and I got this idea in my head that, if I am going to lose all my remaining marbles, I might as well do it in style and write a concept album while I’m at it. Tricky though, concept albums. Very, er, sophisticated and fiddly. D’you know, my old man, Jacob Sebastian Niccals, was a musician, sort of. Oh, listeners, he was shite.” He dissolves into laughter again. “But, as it turns out, yours truly is actually rather good at this music writing thing and that pissed him off no end. Got a proper hiding for that.” Murdoc chuckles. “So he’d make me sing all these terrible songs at talent shows because I’ve always sounded like a cat getting skinned when I sing, that was his way of putting me back in my box. But, joke’s on him, ‘cause I found his band’s old bass guitar and look at me now.” Murdoc’s voice gets louder and louder, booming around the lighthouse. “I’m a MULTI-FUCKING-MILLIONAIRE, that old cunt’s dead and I’m-”

He sits up enough to finish the rum and everything swims.

“I’m getting carried away,” Murdoc confides. “Another tale for another time, eh? But I think we can play one last tune before I pass out.” He gestures at Noodle to ready the track. “This is a sweet little ditty by my old mate, Tom Waits, and it’s called God’s Away On Business. Don’t worry, kids, God might have fucked off but I’m still here. This has been Point Nemo FM.”

Murdoc taps his foot to the oompah music, looking up when Noodle’s shadow stretches over him. She offers him her hand and he takes it. It’s cold and wrong but he grips it hard as she helps him back into his chair.

“When’d you get so big eh?” he asks. “I remember when you were a right short arse,” he gestures vaguely at chest height. “Short but good, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Not much of a conversationalist nowadays, are you?” he slurs.

“No.”

He slumps forward on the desktop, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

“You gonna leave me sprog?”

“No.”

“Good,” he chuckles into his sleeve. “Hey, d’you remember when we used to play Rammstein together when you were little? That really pissed off Stu and Russ, didn’t it?”

She watches over him. The machine gun is just visible at the back of her mouth.

“Course you don’t,” he sighs, letting his eyes slide shut. “You’re dead. Can’t remember anything when you’re dead.”

He pulls his captain’s hat down further over his face.

“Night night poppet. Don’t let the Boogieman get me, yeah?”

“Yes sir,” she says, resuming her patrol.

*

Try as he might to ration, 2D’s prescription eventually runs out. Afterwards, he stumbles through the mansion’s corridors, never quite vomiting but heaving, vision swimming and shattering as the vice tightens around his brain. It's clear from the silence and dust that he's alone so eventually he keeps to his bedroom with the blinds drawn, face pressed into the pillow, waiting for an end.

It’s impossible to say when the Cyborg wordlessly drops the parcel off in his room. 2D rips it open when he can summon the energy and finds an inordinate amount of codeine inside. He pops the cap off one pill bottle and dry swallows a handful of tablets. It occurs to him to keep going but he stops when he feels fuzzy and sluggish instead. He shoves three pill bottles into various trouser pockets before venturing out of his room again, rattling as he goes. Everything looks like the Jetsons, all retro-futuristic and plastic, tidy but dusty. He can barely make out Plastic Beach through the threatening blue grey fog that clings to the window panes.

He finds a moderately stocked kitchen, a living room, dining room and bedrooms for Russel and Noodle, both untouched. In the living room, he spots spliffs and a lighter on a coffee table and goes ahead and lights up. He puffs on the spliff as he investigates the basement level and starts to feel amazing. The light in the white halls develops a glittery, gem-like quality. 2D wonders if he’s died or still knocked out in the backseat of Murdoc’s car.

2D stumbles upon a studio and is stunned to see all his old synths are there, alongside several new ones. The new Fantom-G8 makes him yelp in excitement and he sits down to begin tinkering with its controls. He only looks up when the Cyborg appears silently in the doorway. It’s particularly unnerving thanks to her paramilitary outfit. He tries to keep calm by playing the sparkly sounding melody he’s been working on, casting her a look through his bangs.

“Um, hello there.”

“There are beats,” the Cyborg gestures to the new mac computers in the studio. “And lyrics,” she gestures to one of Murdoc’s battered notebooks sat on top of the mixing desk. “You should use them.”

“Use them?” 2D reluctantly gets up from the synth to pick up the notebook and thumb through it. As he turns the pages, the writing worsens, ending with a page that reads simply “WHERE’S NORTH FROM HERE??”.

“To write music.”

2D’s addled brain takes a while to fathom what’s she’s saying.

“Hold on, am I in some sort of hit factory?” He wakes one mac up, loads Cubase and clicks on a few music tracks, gritting his teeth when he finds himself enjoying them. The Cyborg stares at him coolly, her finger resting lightly on the trigger of her gun.

“You should write music,” she repeats.

Feeling queasy, 2D heads back to the synth. He tries to reason through the situation but his panic only encourages him to toke on the spliff which puts paid to any analytical skill he might otherwise have. All his brain can muster is the thought that you don’t bring people to mystery islands if you’re just going to murder them. Looking at the Cyborg’s finger on the trigger, he’s not convinced.

2D plays for a little while under her watch, going back and forth to the mac to toy around with various looped samples before he forgets himself enough to ask, “where is he?” Since he’s already damned himself, he adds, “I-I mean, he was here when I arrived, where’s he gone?”

Dread washes over 2D as he asks, “he’s not left has he? Oh god, he’s not left me here, has he? I was looking out of the porthole the other day and I saw this huge, horrib-”

“He is here,” the Cyborg cuts across him. “You cannot see him.”

“As in he’s invisible or-” He puts down the spliff. “Where is he?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“How’m I mean to write an album with someone who’s not even here?”

“You will write music.” He imagines her finger moves on the trigger.

“Alright, alright.”

2D goes along with it for a few days, spending his time in the studio high enough to feel divorced from his surroundings. At first the samples and recordings are enough to distract him. There's a lot of different ideas, ranging from eclectic to unlistenable. He finds orchestral pieces, brass bands, electro. He steers away from guitar tracks wherever possible because he can hear that the recordings are just facsimiles of Noodle’s style. As 2D fiddles with verses and choruses, layers ideas, he feels increasingly lonely, like he's living in a warped version of the caravan in Eastbourne.

The Cyborg never stays in the studio but patrols the mansion, appearing at the doorway with lunch at midday and dinner at six like clockwork. 2D usually keeps to himself when she appears but sometimes the loneliness loosens his tongue.

“So, um, what's he up to if he's not here?”

“His location is classified.”

“Yeah I know that." He picks at his salad. “I'm just asking what he does all day?”

“He drinks,” 2D returns her look wearily, “and he hosts his radio show.”

“What radio show?”

“The one he pretends to have,” she says, emotionless. 2D winces and goes back to eating.

When he starts working with the lyrics for On Melancholy Hill he knows he’s got nothing to lose. As the Cyborg does her sweep of the studio, he gives her a nervous wave and she walks over, her electric eyes piercing.

“Yes?”

“Er, hi. Um.” As drug addled as he is, 2D's keenly aware he's no negotiator. That had always been Noodle or Russ’ strong suit. He taps nervously on his trouser leg before picking up the CD in its jewel case and holding it out to her.

“This is a couple of demos.” She snatches it from his hand, opens the case but thankfully doesn't take out the disc. “He needs to listen to it, there's no point in working on this stuff if no-one else has listened to it.”

She considers for a moment before nodding curtly.

“What is the title?”

“Of what? The songs or the album?”

“Both.”

“Er,” 2D casts about, “On Melancholy Hill and… the eye song,” he offers lamely. “I dunno what to call the album, it's not done.”

She continues to stand there expectantly.

“Stink...fish.”

She turns on her heel and marches out of the room. When her footsteps have receded, 2D takes a deep breath and creeps out of the studio.

*

“Mmm, lovely, that was Search and Destroy by Iggy and his Stooges. Think we can all empathise with a forgotten boy who's just looking to fuck some shit up in the end times, can’t we? Speaking of end times, how’re things out there? See I reckon, if it was the end of the world, I’d be the last to know. Plastic Beach is a bit like Stoke in that way: it already looks like the world’s ended here.” He snickers. “But do give your old pal Murdoc a bell if everyone’s gone and died and I’m the last sod standing, won't you?”

Noodle hands him a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a swig.

"Ah, that's better. Shame all the mixers ran out. I guess that’s what happens when you design your secret island hangout on the back of a fag packet, eh? But I digress. I have got a lovely treat for you today, Point Nemo FM listeners. I’ve got early access to some brand new Gorillaz tracks! Gosh! It's been too pissing long, I hear you cry and I agree with you but that's what happens when you kill your guitarist, fuck your frontman and drive your drummer loopy. Really slows the creative process down, yeah. Anyway, our new release is called-” He squints down at the title and nearly drops the jewel case when he recognises the handwriting. Noodle notices his shock before he shoots her what he hopes is a reassuring grin. He attempts to read the scribble again. ““Stinkfish”. Well that's terrible, no it's not called Stinkfish, it's called… the Concept Album. Y’know like the White Album… It's a work in progress. Let's give it a spin, shall we?”

As Murdoc pops the disc out and passes it to Noodle, a little scrap of paper tucked under the disc catches his eye. He fishes it out, watched closely by Noodle. He pauses in reading the scribbles on the paper when the singing kicks in on the track and opts to guzzle more rum instead.

“I’m a scary gargoyle on a tower, that you made with plastic power. Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away.”

“Wait.” Murdoc pauses the song and looks at Noodle. “Is that cowbell? Why's there fucking cowbell?”

Noodle offers a shrug. She gestures with a nod to the scrap of paper.

“What does it say?”

“S'none of your business." Murdoc hastily shoves the note in his jean pocket. He gets to his feet, swaying as he looks down the lighthouse steps, bottle in hand. “Shit, I knew I should have installed a stairlift.”

“Where are you going?” Noodle demands, making to block the way. He pushes past her, almost falling down the first few steps. “What about your show?”

“What show? I'm talking to myself like a lunatic.” He jabs a finger at her as he descends. “Keep looking out for pirates, yeah? I'll be back for the next broadcast. Sound the alarm if they reach the gates!”

Murdoc's ready to keel over when he reaches the door of the lighthouse but he keeps walking, staggering across the rocky magenta ground. The beach looks even more of a rubbish tip by the failing light of the moon. He makes out shipwrecks, parts of old freight containers, the wreckage of Stylo, but nothing living. Murdoc turns as he walks, throwing nervous looks all around and up at the lighthouse, imagining he can see Noodle tracking his progress. He reaches the boat house, opens the door and is instantly grappled to the concrete floor. He goes down like a sack of shit.

Murdoc’s hands find the neck of his assailant seconds after his assailant’s find his. When he locks eyes with his attacker, his hands loosen their grip. 2D’s tighten until Murdoc's eyes close and he folds his hands on his chest, coffin-like. The singer lets go with a sound of frustration and slaps Murdoc instead. Murdoc jolts but stays on his back, eyes closed.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” 2D's words echo off the walls of the empty boat house. Marshalling his senses, Murdoc fixes him with a suspicious look.

“How’d you get here?”

“I snuck out of the house when that robot was with you-”

“No no,” Murdoc interjects, “how'd you get here?” he asks, gesturing to the boat house and island beyond. 2D seems to realise his position and climbs off Murdoc, bewildered. Murdoc scrabbles to grab his rum bottle, thankfully still intact.

“Are you kidding me?” 2D yells. “You kidnapped me! How can you not remember?”

Murdoc considers while he drinks. He does and he doesn’t (want to). He remembers being followed (by his own insane imagination). He remembers 2D’s disappointment (before Noodle knocked him out). He remembers being alone. Murdoc doubles down on drinking but 2D comes and crouches by him, looking openly horrified at his appearance.

“What are you doing?” 2D hisses. “Where is this? Where the hell are we?”

“Point Nemo.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the point furthest from, well, everything.”

“Jesus christ,” 2D says, clearly on the verge of panic. “This is insane. Why… I mean if you were going to kill me-”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Murdoc slurs. “I already killed Noodle, I can’t lose another one.”

“What?” 2D pulls the rum bottle out of his hand and Murdoc doesn’t bother resisting. “What do you mean you killed her? Murdoc, what did you do?”

“I…” Murdoc clambers to his feet and walks back out of the boat house, looking baffled at his own surroundings. “She was hiding these secrets about her past and I told her if she didn’t want to tell me… she could go and die. So she did.”

2D’s shoulders sag.

“You didn’t kill her.”

“I might as well have,” Murdoc snaps. “Give me the rum back.”

“No.”

“Then leave me alone.”

“You brought us both to the remotest point in the world to avoid me.”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees, rubbing at his face and staggering a few more steps. After staring angrily at him for a moment, 2D puts Murdoc’s arm around his shoulders to help hold him up. Murdoc sees how 2D’s gaze lingers on the lap of the water against the shore.

“You could chuck me in,” Murdoc says, as though in agreement. “But look,” he points to a gaggle of plastic bags, puffed up like jellyfish, swimming back and forth from the shore, “all the shit just comes back, s’no point.”

2D shakes his head silently as he guides them both further inland. Murdoc does his best to walk rather than be dragged.

“You’re writing an album,” 2D says when they take a rest near the steps cut into the cliff face. “Then what, you’re never going to play it? Tour it?”

“No, it's a concept album,” Murdoc explains.

“What’s the concept?”

Murdoc casts around for an answer. “My mental disintegration? I didn't get that far. I had an idea about there being some book and I’d lived through all of history or something, I dunno.” He grows irritable. “Why’re you interrogating me?”

“You kidnapped me,” 2D repeats, as though speaking to a child. From the way he's shaking, he's clearly livid. “You committed a criminal offence and you could go to jail for years.”

“Gotta get caught for that.”

“I'll hand you in.”

“No mobile signal mate.”

2D looks ready to strangle him again. Murdoc’s shoulders sag as he mutters “I need a sit down.”

They both flop to the sand and Murdoc looks at the ocean. The size of it fills him with dread.

“I've been working on Broken and On Melancholy Hill,” 2D says eventually. Murdoc pulls his attention from the sea and meets 2D’s eyes, giving a nod. 2D looks devastated.

“How many more songs.” 2D pauses, swallows, starts over. “How many times are you going to make me sing songs about myself?”

Murdoc is frozen with horror for a split second, then, he tries to scramble to his feet. 2D holds him down with ease.

“I'm not stupid!” 2D says and it's the angriest Murdoc has ever heard him sound. “If I was that stupid why would you be so fucking in love with me-”

“No, no, no," Murdoc croaks. He tries to shake off 2D’s hands but the man just yanks him down.

“Because it's one thing for you to do this stuff,” 2D gestures with his free hand to the island, “which somehow makes sense in your fucked up brain or something, but that." 2D's grip tightens on his shoulder. “It's torture, it's weird and cruel and-”

Murdoc wonders if he fell while walking down the lighthouse steps after all because his face feels wet. He reaches out to rub the blood away and is horrified to see it's tears. He's crying. He can't stop crying. He holds the bottom of face in one hand, terrified, and 2D watches, stunned.

“I can’t stop.” He panics. “I can’t stop any of this. I’m stuck. I can’t stop.”

“I know,” 2D says softly.

“When I bought this place, the pictures looked great,” Murdoc explains, an edge of mania to his voice. “All pink sands and palm trees… and then I got here… and it’s rotten. It’s dying and… fake and,” his voice hitches, “everything’s just speeding up, y’know? It’s speeding up and I can’t stop it. And and I’m, I’m, I'm so angry, I'm always angry and I can't stop.” He gives up before he runs out of breath and does his best to scrub the tears from his face. They just keep coming.

“This is the worst gift anyone’s ever gotten me,” 2D says as he looks out over the beach. It should be funny but it’s just sad and tired. Murdoc nods as he sniffles.

They're silent for a time. The hand on Murdoc’s shoulder becomes an arm around his waist. Eventually, Murdoc manages to stop himself crying. He feels exhausted.

“So are we stuck here?” 2D asks quietly.

“Perhaps, I haven't tried leaving yet. There's supply deliveries but it's all black market, not sure I’d want to travel with those guys.”

“If we’re gonna stay here,” 2D sounds despondent at the prospect, “things need to change.”

“Alright,” Murdoc murmurs.

“We’re gonna finish the album together. I can’t just sit in a studio by myself. I'm going nuts."

“I’m too drunk for that.”

“Then sober up,” Murdoc knows 2D knows that's easier said than done.

“When we started out,” 2D says when the sun starts to rise, “when we first started out, I really enjoyed writing music with you, even if you were this sod who stole my girlfriends. You’re really talented.”

Murdoc is alarmed at the admission but keeps quiet.

“I never wrote stuff before you hit me with your car, I just played covers. You helped me get better at writing.”

“I already told you you were a musician didn’t I? You can write, you just get in your head. It’s like Funkadelic said, isn’t it?”

2D looks over at him.

““Free your mind and your ass will follow”.”

2D’s lip quirks at that.

“Yeah, I guess. I think I’m getting better. It’s like the one thing where I can just... “ he pauses, “I can forget all the shit between us and just… because we are a good team.”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees sadly.

“Can’t we just be normal?” 2D asks desperately.

“We’re in a band, that’s the opposite of normal,” Murdoc grimaces. “That’s why I’m in a band.”

“You just,” Murdoc has learned to spot the signs of an impending migraine over the years and he sees how 2D’s expression starts to pinch. The man rifles around in his pockets, finds a bottle of pills, takes a few but it's clearly too late. “You have to ruin stuff. I don’t know why you’re like this but you just… break everything. You broke me, and you broke the band and you break yourself, all the time, over and over and-” by the end of the sentence 2D’s resorted to clutching at his head.

2D flinches as Murdoc’s hands lift him to his feet. Together, they drag themselves up to the mansion. 2D falls onto his bed with a small, pained noise. Murdoc hesitates momentarily in the doorway.

“Stu-”

“I just wanna sleep.”

“I-”

“Finish the album if you're really sorry,” 2D says into his pillow. Murdoc heads off in search of his own barely used bedroom.

*

2D emerges from his room at midday and finds Murdoc already in the studio, flanked by the Cyborg. He looks even worse in daylight, eyes yellowed. Murdoc looks away from the computer screens to study him, and then reaches for a wastepaper bin to throw up into. 2D grimaces.

“You look awful.”

“I haven’t had a drink today,” Murdoc says hoarsely. 2D looks around, grabs a bottle of rum and hands it to Murdoc, who takes it, baffled. “So let’s celebrate…?”

“No, you’ll die if you don’t.”

“What? I mean, it’s feeling a bit that way, but-”

“I’m not a doctor," 2D says, frustrated, "but you can’t go from sixty to zero, just, go back to what you used to drink." He pauses. "What did you use to drink?”

Murdoc takes a pull of the rum, looking relieved.

“Oh, just a thimbleful of sherry at Christmas,” he mutters. “And if I’m dying, you’re dying, you’re getting through that codeine like it’s Haribo.”

2D shoots him a look. “Are we recording or what?”

Murdoc nods, standing up and pulling on his bass.

“Rhinestone Eyes. It’s got cowbell.”

“I like a bit of cowbell,” 2D says defensively.

“Save it for your solo album." Murdoc toys with the controls on his amp. “Not that you should do a solo album.”

“Scared it might be good?” 2D asks with a weary smirk.

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees. “Alright, verse on one two three four-”

*

“Mmm, that was the lovely Kate Bush with Running Up That Hill. That last track was a selection from our extra special guest, lovely listeners. Y’know what, it wasn’t a bad choice, mostly because it wasn’t Roxy Music.”

“Oi, their debut- Virginia Plain is amazing.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Murdoc insists. “The real point of today’s show is we’re announcing Gorillaz's brand spanking new album, Stinkfish Mark 2-”

“Plastic Beach.”

2D can't make up his mind if the prospect of them broadcasting to no-one is better or worse than broadcasting to someone. Whatever the case, he'd agreed to it more for a change of pace than anything, as an alternative to either sitting in the studio or venturing out into the toxic air of the beach.

“Right, right, Plastic Beach,” Murdoc agrees. “For our simpler listeners out there, if you haven’t already clocked it, our special guest is Mr 2D himself. How’s it going 2D?”

“I’m still trying to decide whether to learn morse code, signal for help and get you arrested, but otherwise, yeah, good thanks.”

“Great stuff,” Murdoc says, tone smarmy, “though I could do without the attitude. Now, a little birdie told me there’s one thing about our dreadful island paradise that you’re especially against, what’s that?”

“What, the whales?” 2D asks. Murdoc lights them both a spliff and he takes it gratefully. “Why’d David Attenborough never say how scary whales are on Blue Planet? I don’t care if they’re majestic, they’re huge and they’d eat you as soon as look at y-”

His sentence is interrupted by an ear splitting siren. Murdoc shoots a look at Noodle, who’s already cocking her gun at the window.

“What is it?”

“Intruders,” she says.

“Is it the police?” Murdoc turns ashen. “Shit, is it the police?”

The whole lighthouse tilts for a moment. The three of them go skittering to the other side of the room.

“Jesus chri-” 2D yelps. Murdoc scrabbles to one window, clinging to the ledge. He looks down and thinks he sees a ghost.

“Satan, help me.”

The quality of the alarm changes, becoming deeper and more cacophonous.

“What's that?” 2D yells over the din. “Why did it change?”

“It's the evacuation alarm,” Murdoc says, still staring at the figure below. “We're sinking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miserable as this outing was, I hope you find the mental image of Murdoc and lil Noodle playing Rammstein as sweet as I do (both on vocals, natch). 
> 
> P.S. I made a random order Point Nemo Spotify playlist (https://tinyurl.com/y7z4kur9) because Murdoc may be awful but he's got killer music taste (picks based on the ROTO Tube map showing how the gang’s music taste coincides and deviates).


	9. 2009 - 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2D and Murdoc go back to the start. 
> 
> Warnings for sex, language and injury. Lots of plot deviation as I'm struggling to follow the Phase 3 timeline plus some of it’s too whacky for this universe. Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: these two are interesting but incredibly unhealthy. This is not a romantic relationship.
> 
> Extra warning for The Fall bashing (and creative liberties taken with the meaning of the title/time it was recorded). There's some decent ideas on there but it's not exactly Gorillaz's most polished outing.

The lighthouse lurches as they run down the stairs. Murdoc regrets the amount of rum he's gotten through as the bottles start skittering down the steps after them, smashing and littering the air with glass as the island tilts and rocks.

Murdoc tears outside, looking around wildly before spotting her again. He heads left, following his delusion down to the beach. When he closes in on her, his lungs are burning and he's ready to just light a cigarette and give up. Murdoc makes a grab for her shirt and-

She turns, one fist raised instinctively to hit him. She lowers it when she sees who's holding her.

“What happened to your outfit?” Murdoc asks, voice tremulous with hope.

“What outfit?” Noodle asks. “Murdoc, what are you doing?”

Murdoc all but collapses into her arms. Noodle manages to hold him upright as he hugs her, face buried in her neck. She's warm.

“Murdoc, we need to leave,” she says and he can hear her exhale, inhale. He holds her tighter. “This place isn't safe. I think some of your business partners are looking for refunds.”

“I knew you weren't dead,” Murdoc says, looking into her face with a desperate smile. He’s lying, of course, he didn't know anything of the sort. “You're too smart to die, aren't you? God, look at you, you've really shot up.”

In his peripheral vision, Murdoc can see the shoreline creeping closing as the island slips into the sea.

“Murdoc, be careful, you're bleeding.”

“Oh, no, I'm probably just crying.” Murdoc looks down at his shirt. Once white with black stripes, it's now red with blood. “Fuck,” he looks down at his right hand and sees the glitter of glass, skin puffing around larger shards. “Fuck.” He lifts up his left hand and notices that he's still gripping Plastic Beach. He gingerly opens the shattered jewel case with shaking hands. Remarkably, the disc is intact. “Thank fuck.”

Gunfire tears up the ground around them, leaving the air hazy with dried pink spray paint. Noodle practically drags him to the shore and into a waiting submarine.

When they're inside, Russel looking impossibly big in the cramped interior as he studies Murdoc’s wounds, Murdoc rouses enough to glance around.

“Where’s Stu?”

Noodle steers through rubble as the island separates into its constituent parts of old space stations, satellites, fighter jets. She darts a look over her shoulder at him.

“What?”

“Stu, Stu was there-”

The island crumbles into the ocean as Murdoc speaks. He stares, stunned, as the mansion slips down into the depths.

“What?” Russel asks, horrified. “D was with you?”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees numbly. “He was still on there.”

Noodle turns back to face the controls of the submarine as more ships come their way.

“But,” Murdoc feels distant from his own body. “I just got you back, sprog. How can I have gone and lost Stu?”

In his head Murdoc’s caught between screaming and yelling. Instead, he sits, silent, as Russel tries to patch him up.

“Can my band stop dying?” he asks in a whisper. “I haven’t got any of those robots left now.”

“What?” Noodle asks. “You mean the body doubles? Murdoc, what-”

“I needed a guitarist.” He gestures to the CD, resting on his lap. “For the album. S’good, it’s got brass bands and everything.”

The rum and adrenaline start to wear off as the remains of Plastic Beach disappear into the distance. Murdoc closes his eyes against the pain.

*

The lighthouse lurches as they run down the stairs. 2D ducks the barrage of glass and debris, arms crossed over his head. Outside, Murdoc runs left over the quaking ground towards the beach. 2D heads right, the Cyborg in his wake. The shuddering ground comes up to meet his feet and he's not thinking, just running and running until he's inside the mansion. He dodges sliding furniture and falling wall panels to reach his bedroom and gathers his iPad, a few CDs, a few notebooks. The view out of the window keeps shifting, his ears pop and he knows instinctively that he's sinking deeper and deeper.

“Oh shit,” he says quietly. He's tempted to just sit down and finish his bottle of pills but the Cyborg grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down the hallway and out a door he's not sure he's ever used to a garage of sorts. There's a submarine. The Cyborg bundles him inside. 2D watches numbly as the island breaks apart around them. The debris jostles the submarine and he closes his eyes queasily.

“Was Murdoc still in there?” 2D asks. The Cyborg deftly guides the submarine through oncoming fire from other boats.

“I do not know.”

“Jesus christ,” 2D murmurs. The destruction worsens and the submarine jolts. Something heavy hits them and sends them off kilter. 2D is thrown against one wall of the submarine.

When he opens his eyes again the sun is beating down on his face. His cheek is resting on hot sand and he panics at the Deja Vu. He struggles to his feet and sees white sand and clear blue sea. The air is clean and 2D reckons if he's going to die, he could die somewhere worse. A few feet away, he sees his iPad, CDs and notebooks but no sign of the submarine or the Cyborg.

It's beautiful but it's empty and 2D tries to keep calm. He wishes he could remember any survival skills, anything from Castaway, even, other than all the yelling. He gathers his possessions and spots that his hands are littered with cuts and scratches. He's remarkably unscathed considering the extent of the chaos.

2D’s been walking for a while, mouth dry and legs heavy, when he rounds a bend in the coastline and a building comes into view up an incline. When he gets closer, he sees it's a small hotel and the alarmed reception staff speak to him in Spanish as he stumbles across the threshold. Using a combination of Google Translate, image searches for band photos and pointing repeatedly between himself and the screen, 2D manages to get a rustic looking room for the night and a telephone number.

He climbs on the bed and falls straight to sleep. He dreams about water and rot and the regimented meals at Plastic Beach. He dreams about it all dissolving. He wakes up to a knock at the door from a medic. She gives him a look over and patches up the worst of the gashes on his arms, chest, face and hands. He smiles his thanks and shakes her hand. He goes back to sleep and wakes up feeling over rested and hungry.

After breakfast by the pool, 2D picks up the telephone in his room and dials.

“Jimmy Manson Entertainment,” says the chirpy secretary.

“Oh, hello Barbara, how’s things?” 2D says, a little deliriously. “This is 2D. From Gorillaz. The band.”

“Oh my god, um, hold the line please.” The muzak - an 8-bit 19-2000 - only lasts a few seconds before Jimmy’s on the line.

“D?!”

“Hey Jimmy, how’s things?”

“D, where have you been? We’ve been trying to contact you for over a year! I mean, sure, I expect this from Murdoc but not from you! Actually, do you know where Murdoc is?” Jimmy asks, mile a minute. “There were these reports that he was buying an island but we never found out where. And we never saw a penny of that insurance pay out from Kong-”

“Jimmy, I’ve got an album,” 2D cuts across.

“What?”

“I’ve got an album. An album to release.” 2D sits down in the desk chair. “We need to release my album.”

“What, like a solo album?”

“No, it’s Gorillaz.”

“Where are you?”

“Um.” 2D looks around. “South America.”

“You wanna get more specific?”

“No?”

“Alright, you want me to fly down? Or you could come to LA?”

“No,” 2D says, decisively. “No, I want some alone time.”

“You’ve been off the grid for a year.”

“I’m… finding myself,” 2D offers. “I can email it to you. How’s that sound? But you’ve got to promise to get it released.”

“What’s it like?”

“Er, it’s all exactly like Clint Eastwood,” 2D lies. “It’ll be great.”

“Right,” Jimmy sounds unconvinced. “Does this album have a title?”

2D looks about the room for inspiration. Beyond the French doors, it looks like paradise, the clear blue waters stretching out to the horizon, the yellow coast curving gently around the bay. There's an infinity pool directly in front of his room, perched on the edge of the hill. He hasn't ventured out there yet but he can see that, after the pool, it's a sheer drop. All that beauty and his gaze is drawn to the silent threat of the drop.

“The Fall,” he says.

*

When Murdoc opens his eyes, he's in hospital.

He lets the doctors give him the usual lectures about imminent organ failure and how he should, by rights, be dead, before pulling out his drips and monitors and discharging himself from St Thomas' onto Westminster Bridge.

His first stop is an off licence. His second stop is Walter Kenney, the dodgy estate agents who found him Kong. One large bank transfer from the Bahamas and a couple of forged and back dated title documents later and he’s got the keys to Wobble Street. It's unnervingly normal and, worse, in Hammersmith, but it has a studio in the basement. It'll do in a pinch.

He gets in a Tesco order consisting of several cases of vodka. The press cotton on to his presence and he's snapped a few times by paparazzi, sitting on the bare living room floor, drinking. He invites a couple of them in but they eventually lose interest; “Murdoc Niccals gets drunk” is hardly breaking news. After that he’s left to his own devices.

He sits in the bay window one afternoon, sunlight pouring through the bare window and warming the top of his head as he taps out different versions of an email. He settles on:

_Russl, Noode;_

_You ar cordilly invted 2 a bnd meting, tomorw @ miday, @ **212 Wobble Street LondonSW21 7QJ** (I THINK???)._

_i do so hopr yu can atend as I kno how you luv a gd band metin. I set ou an ahenda for yoir consiferaton beloeq._

_Sobrly_

_Muroc Niccal_

_*_

_AGeBDA:_

_1) Aparent death of oue fromtman - soltions? (robots?? hologams?? suiicide pact?? - MN_  
_2) Releze of NEEW ALBUm - MN_  
_3) New band Hq (212 Wooble St) - MN_  
_4) Impotant Anuncement - MN_  
_5) Anothr Oher Bizness_  
_6) dddddddddddddddddddddfmndfmsdddddddd_

Murdoc is baffled when he opens the front door the next day to find Noodle and Russel on the step. Russel shows him the email on his mobile and Murdoc, already three sheets to the wind, makes a noise of vague recollection and lets them in.

“Siddown, siddown,” he slurs. They sit against the opposite wall of the living room. In an effort to be a good host, Murdoc jabs at the corner full of vodka bottles. “Help yourself to refreshments.”

When they stay put, Murdoc shrugs and swigs from a bottle.

“Suit yourself. Straight to the agenda then, yeah?” They remain silent. “I'll take that as seconded and thirdsed. Item 1,” he consults his mobile, “Stu’s dead.”

Murdoc thinks their expressions shift but he struggles to place their emotions and plows on.

“I mean, he is. Haven't seen him since Plastic Beach,” he waves his hand vaguely, “fell apart. Sank. Unless he's a super soldier too. He'd have to be in really deep cover for that to make sense-”

“Murdoc, you don't understand-” Noodle begins coolly. Murdoc talks over her.

“C’mon,” he claps his hands together. “Ideas. How’re we replacing the sod, eh?”

“Murdoc, he's not dead.”

"I saw it with my own eyes-”

“You’re not well,” Russel interjects.

“My cuts and scrapes are all fine,” Murdoc insists, showing them his scarred but otherwise healed hands and dropping the vodka bottle in the process.

“Murdoc, you are not well,” Russel repeats firmly. “We don’t need another singer, we have a singer. You can't stay in the band if you don't get help.”

“Fat lot of good you are,” Murdoc grouses. “I've got to do everything ‘round here. Fine, I’ll get another robot. Noodle,” Murdoc looks across at her and is surprised by her outfit. “Hang on, what happened to the other one? Christ, I've got to get another robot bodyguard stroke guitarist too.”

They continue to watch him wearily.

“Moving on. Item 2: new album.” Murdoc picks the CD up from the floor and holds it aloft victoriously. “Five years later and we've finally got a new fucking album!”

“How is it a Gorillaz album? We’re not on it,” Russel says, eyeing the disc in its battered jewel case.

“I used your drum machine, and your guitar programme thingy,” Murdoc counters, admiring the way the disc catches the light. “Noodle wrote Demon Days, I don’t see how this’s any different. So if we’re all agreed-” after a few failed attempts, he brings up the dialler on his mobile with a mutter of “I’ll give Johnny a call.”

“Jimmy Manson Entertainment,” chirps the secretary.

“Babs, how’re you?” Murdoc coos. “As gorgeous as ever?”

“Murdoc? Aren’t you supposed to be in hospital?” Barbara sighs.

“Clean bill of health,” Murdoc slurs. “Put Johnny on, there’s a love.”

“It’s Jimmy. Hold the line please,” she says and then the 19-2000 muzak plays. Murdoc nods along but quickly stops when he feels ready to vomit.

“Murdoc? What the hell?” comes the voice down the line.

“How’s it going Bobby?”

“Jimmy,” Jimmy says tiredly.

“Right, right, hey, Jimmy, I’ve got great news: we’ve got a brand new album for you!”

“Yeah, I know,” Jimmy agrees. “We got it on email. It’s different.”

Murdoc stares at the disc in confusion.

“Eh?”

“That HillBilly song? Really… different.”

“Hang on, hang on, I’m really drunk, what’s going on now?” Murdoc asks, squinting in a bid to focus.

“2D already sent me the album,” Jimmy says patiently. “The Fall? We got it.”

Murdoc sits up straighter.

“What?”

“2D already sent it.”

“When?”

“Like a couple months ago?”

“That cunt,” Murdoc snarls. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“What?”

“Look, we’ve got another album. I’ll send it you today and you’re releasing it first, capisce?”

“The Fall’s scheduled for three months from now, I can’t see how we can fast track-”

“Plastic Beach.”

“We can’t get Plastic Beach out before The Fall. Look, the label are really happy there’s new material but this is a mess Murdoc. Where’s the press? Are we doing a tour? What-”

“Release it first or you’re fired,” Murdoc says. “And text me D’s number while you're at it.”

Murdoc ends the call and takes another swig of vodka. He shoots Russel and Noodle a suspicious look.

“Did you know about this fucking Call album? Did you know he's fucking alive, while we're at it?”

“Fall,” Russel corrects him. “We’ve been telling you, you just haven't been listening.”

“We already discussed and agreed the album’s release with 2D via Jimmy. You’ve been in hospital for a while, Murdoc,” Noodle says.

Murdoc is still shaking his head, baffled.

“How can we be releasing an album and I didn’t even know about it?”

“The band’s constitution says we need a simple majority for decisions like tour dates and new releases,” Noodle reels off.

“WE HAVE A CONSTITUTION?” Murdoc screeches.

“Shall we just move on to item 3?” Russel suggests.

“Where is he?” Murdoc presses, looking between them for some kind of tell.

“He’s taking a break,” Russel says. “Jimmy said he was finding himself.”

“Well that’ll be fucking easy, he’s right pissing there,” Murdoc growls. “Fine. Item fucking three.” The vodka bottle’s empty so he rolls it to the opposite corner of the room with his other empties. They tinkle at the new addition. “New HQ,” he gestures at the empty house. “You’re in it. Tadah. Sorry it’s in Hammersmith but it’s the only thing the estate agent could forge the title to at short notice.”

“Item 4?” Russel sighs, looking ready to leave.

“Oh, you’ll like item 4,” Murdoc says. He’s reaching for his hip flask when he realises that the sounds from the street, and then Russel and Noodle’s voices, are getting quieter and quieter.

When he wakes up, face down on the floor, they're gone and the room is in darkness. A piece of paper falls off his back when he props himself up. He recognises the neat, purposeful handwriting and peers at it in the gloom.

_Murdoc_

_You have always been terrible. Now, however, I no longer recognise you._

_Seek help._

_Noodle_

_P.S._

_If you attempt to replace me with another robot I will end you._

Murdoc folds the note and places it carefully in his pocket. He looks at his mobile and listens to the last voice message before returning the call.

“Hi,” he says softly, because anything louder makes his head hurt, “this is Murdoc Niccals. You, er, left me a voicemail. I’m confirming I’ll be there on Monday. Oh, and if you let the press know I’ll sue the bollocks of you. I’ve got this great cover story we can use so let’s chat it over on Monday yeah? Cheers.”

He hangs up and reaches for his hip flask.

*

Hotel living is heavenly after Plastic Beach, especially after Jimmy contacts the hotel and upgrades 2D to a bigger suite. He starts forming little friendships with the other guests while he's lying by the pool or sat in the open air restaurant for meals. When another week begins, he starts again with the new set of guests.

Word eventually spreads and a few journalists appear. The hotel does its best to keep them away but several are paying customers. On those days, 2D just sticks to his room, orders room service and waits for them to get bored.

There's a knock on his door one evening. He opens it to a blonde about his age, dressed in linen with intelligent eyes.

“Hello,” 2D offers blandly.

“I'm with the Los Angeles Journal,” she says simply. “Would you like to get a drink?”

He's surprised by the frankness of her approach. It's refreshing compared to the usual surreptitious glances and sneaky photographs.

“Yeah alright.”

He follows her to the restaurant, the tables set with tropical flowers and candles. Everything's tinged pink as the sun sets.

“What's your name?”

“Leah, hi.” She smiles as they're seated.

“Stuart.” They shake hands. “Hello.”

They order cocktails and take a sip before Leah sets her mobile recording on the table.

“You're a long way from home,” she says. 2D hums his agreement. “Why is that?”

He watches someone complete a length of the pool before turning back to Leah.

“I don't know.”

“It's been a long time since your last album and the band has barely been heard from since Noodle’s purported death and now, reappearance.”

Jimmy had rung him in the dead of the night with the news that Noodle and Murdoc were alive, days after 2D had called about The Fall. 2D hadn’t contacted Noodle or Russel yet. Besides Jimmy, he hadn't spoken to anyone beyond the confines of the hotel since arriving.

“If you want to know more about that, I'd suggest talking to her,” he offers.

“Your new album is very dense,” Leah notes, changing tact deftly. “On its face it seems upbeat but there's an undercurrent. Can you talk a little about that?”

2D frowns, confused.

“I think it's lonely and tired and it's about constantly being in transit.”

“That's… not what it sounds like to me,” Leah says, equally confused. “Stylo, for example, sounds like a meditation on human excess.”

“They've released Plastic Beach?” he asks.

Leah looks thrown off her stride.

“I'm sorry, how did you not know that your band has released an album?”

“Well, we have this constitution,” 2D starts before shaking his head. “I can't believe he's released it.”

Leah is watching him, bemused but interested.

“What about The Fall? Has that come out yet?” he asks.

“Um, no, the copy your label sent the Journal said that's going to be released next month, though they already previewed a single, Revolving Doors, on the radio. Sorry, why can't you believe he released it? By he I'm guessing you mean Nic-”

“Actually,” 2D interrupts gently, “I'd really like to just talk. Would that be okay?”

Leah looks taken aback.

“Just, write whatever you want for the article but, could we just talk instead?” he gestures to her mobile. After a moment's consideration, she taps the stop button and looks at him thoughtfully.

“What about?”

“Where’re you from?”

“Minnesota, originally.”

He tells her how interested he was in tornadoes as a kid and that he knows Minnesota is right at the top of Tornado Alley. She tells him about the tornadoes her cousins saw in St Peters back in 1998 and the golf ball sized hail that accompanied them. Leah tells him about playing hockey growing up, because, well, Minnesota, and how she wasn’t very good at it. He tells her how he'd dreamed about playing for Crawley Town FC as a younger kid and was gutted when a coach said he was good with the ball but his reaction times were too slow.

They get another round of drinks. She asks about his hair and he tells her about falling out of the tree. She's clearly dying to know so he confirms, with a laugh, that the carpet matches the drapes and no, no-one has any idea what’ll happen when he gets older. She shows him her own tree climbing injury, a faint scar over her left eyebrow. He tells her it's probably just as well her hair didn't fall out and grow back blue because blonde suits her.

It's just talk, just cocktails, a beautiful sunset and a gorgeous woman. He knows there's a Stuart somewhere who would love to be sat there, soaking up the last rays of sunshine. He knows that Stuart can never be him.

2D walks her back to her room and considers asking to join her - it's obvious she wants to invite him in - but instead he kisses her cheek good night. He heads back to his room and plugs in the mobile phone Jimmy sent him months ago. He turns it on for the first time and a dozen text messages ping onto the screen. He reads through them and replies to Jimmy, Russel and Noodle.

The second to last message also claims to be from Russel but the number is different.

 _The new album is great,_ the other Russel’s text says.

 _which 1?_ 2D jokes.

The other Russel replies within minutes, despite his original message being weeks old.

_Both I guess. Yours is really interesting. Some freaky stuff on there. The mountains song is kind of weird._

_yeah i guess i was feeling weird when i wrote it. when i wrote all of it_

_You still taking a break?_

_yeah_

_How long are you staying in South America?_

_i dont know. its weird living in a hotel room but not being on tour_

_You should come back to London. Be good to catch up. It’s been years._

_yeah_

_How about when you get back, we get dinner?_

_alright where_

_Somewhere in Chinatown? Just let me know when you’re back and we can figure something out. Got a lot to talk about._

_yeah_

He books his flights to England that night for the following month. When he lands, 2D turns his mobile back on and texts the other Russel to arrange a time and a day for dinner. They settle on the following evening.

2D’s ushered brusquely into Cheung’s on Wardour Street and heads for the second floor at other Russel’s instructions. Even at nine, the restaurant is busy, and he almost misses the man, sat at a two person table in the far corner. He considers just leaving but they lock eyes. No-one pays any attention to 2D as he squeezes around them to get to the table.

“Clever concept, it's like a bar but for food,” Murdoc says, gesturing to the menu.

“They're called restaurants,” 2D agrees. He makes no effort to sit.

“It'll never catch on.”

“You pretended to be Russel.”

“You'd never have come if I'd said it was me,” Murdoc shrugs.

“I guess lying’s not as bad as lying and kidnapping,” 2D mutters. Murdoc’s expression falters. He goes back to looking through the menu rather than respond.

“Why’m I here? What's this about?”

Murdoc’s hand twitches on the table. He forces himself to meet 2D’s eye when he speaks.

“I'm sorry.”

2D returns his look, expression guarded.

“For what?”

Murdoc visibly bristles.

“Really? For the fucking,” Murdoc casts a look around and lowers his voice. “Wait, how's pig Latin work again?”

“For the kidnapping?” 2D presses. No-one's paying them any attention and most patrons are speaking Cantonese anyway.

“Right, that,” Murdoc meets his eye, jaw set.

“I assumed but you've never actually apologised for hitting me with your car-”

“Right.”

“Twice. Or stealing my girlfriends.”

“Right.”

“Multiple times. Or-”

“Yes, alright!” Murdoc snaps. “Satan give me strength, are you done?”

“Charming.” 2D makes to leave. Murdoc lets out a noise of frustration.

“Stu. I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry,” he rattles off irritably.

2D studies Murdoc coolly before giving a curt nod.

“If that’s everything, I'm gonna go.”

“No no, wait.”

Murdoc looks disappointed at the prospect. It occurs to 2D that the range of emotions that have passed across Murdoc’s face since he arrived outnumber those he saw in their whole time on Plastic Beach.

“What?”

“What d'you want?” Murdoc gestures to the menu.

“That assumes I'm staying.”

Murdoc holds out the menu, wagging it at 2D. “Hypothetically, if you were going to stay, what would you want?”

He is hungry. Still standing, 2D takes the menu and thumbs through it.

“Strictly hypothetically speaking, the vegetable spring rolls, sweet and sour bean curd, egg fried rice.”

Murdoc grabs a waiter and orders for them both. 2D drops into the other chair, watching Murdoc expectantly.

“So you're sorry, what else?”

“Well, like you pointed out, Mr Law Degree, kidnap’s illegal,” Murdoc says in a low tone, “so I was sort of wondering.”

Even after a decade of knowing one another, 2D can't believe Murdoc’s audacity. “Are you seriously about to ask me if I'm bringing charges?”

Murdoc pulls a face.

“Well, it sounds terrible when you put it like that.”

“Because it is terrible,” 2D insists. “You committed a crime, you should go to jail.”

“Only you and I know what happened.”

2D is ready to get himself arrested for decking Murdoc but he stares hard at the ceiling instead, collecting himself.

“You were ill,” he concedes as calmly as he can.

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees quietly. 2D can feel him watching him.

“No.”

“No, you're not going to tell the police? Or no you are?” Murdoc asks, uneasily. “You haven't so far.”

“No, as in I'm not telling you one way or the other,” 2D explains. “That was the worst year of my life and if you’re worried that one day you might suffer the consequences of your actions, then tough shit, I don't care.”

Murdoc considers for a moment before nodding and studying the menu again, clearly lost in thought.

“I thought you were in the studio?” 2D says, looking at the other diners. “I read that EMI tracked you down in their submarine and locked you in their basement because we're behind on releases.”

“Glad someone bought that bollocks,” Murdoc mutters. “I've been in rehab.”

2D studies Murdoc properly. He still looks older than his mid forties but he’s noticeably healthier. There's a light in his eyes that was missing at Plastic Beach.

“Why?”

“You're really asking me why I needed to go to rehab?” Murdoc asks, wryly. “I never thought I'd say it but even I have limits.”

“Guess we had to find them eventually.”

Their drinks order of two beers arrives and 2D looks at Murdoc despairingly.

“Look, I didn't actually complete rehab,” Murdoc concedes. “But I did enough that I'm no longer so aware of my liver, which is nice. Besides, this shit’s basically water.”

“Right,” 2D sighs. Murdoc holds out his beer bottle for 2D to toast.

“To fresh starts?”

“To getting through the next hour?”

“I'll drink to that.” They clink.

“In my defence,” Murdoc says after their food arrives, “rehab was going swimmingly and I was really enjoying making up some bollocks about how my mum died in a tragic dinghy accident when I was a kid when I heard this new song on the radio.”

2D senses where this is going.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Murdoc agrees. “Revolving Doors, is it?”

“That’d be it.”

“From Gorillaz’s new album, apparently.”

“That's right.”

“The other new album,” Murdoc clarifies. “I downloaded it last week. Bought it with actual money. Genuinely.”

“What'd you think?” 2D keeps his tone ambivalent, dipping a spring roll in some chilli sauce.

“Honestly?” Murdoc asks, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.

“Honestly.”

“Constructive criticism accepted?”

“Just say it before I glass you,” 2D grumbles around a mouthful of spring roll. Murdoc smirks at his reaction.

“Alright, it's…” he considers. “It sounds unfinished.”

2D’s brow knits despite himself. He sees something like regret flash across Murdoc’s face.

“There's some good stuff in there but it's not finished.”

“I was recording it on an iPad while I was falsely imprisoned,” 2D says bitterly. Murdoc sits back in his chair.

“You wrote it on Plastic Beach?”

“Yeah.”

The dawning realisation is obvious on Murdoc’s face.

“That's why we got separated. When the island went down, you were going-”

“Back to the mansion.”

“For the album?”

“And some other stuff,” 2D agrees vaguely, “yeah.” He finishes his beer to buy some time. “And you weren’t there to bounce ideas off like we used to. So, yeah, it probably sounds unfinished,” he pauses, then continues, “I wanted to make something. In the middle of all that shit and rubbish, I just wanted to make something… functional.”

Murdoc doesn’t meet his eye so 2D adds, “that and I reckoned it'd piss you off.”

Murdoc looks up with a dark smirk. He flags a waiter and orders some more Tsing Tao.

“Hope it was worth it because we look ridiculous releasing two albums back to back with no warning. Good thing you gave Jim some sound bites about The Ball, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“The Fall.”

“Yeah, that un.”

They get through another round of beer and while Murdoc gets more animated, he stays convivial. 2D tries to reconcile the man in front of him with the figure that haunted Plastic Beach.

“Why did you bring me here?” 2D asks after a while. “To say sorry, to get me to promise not to turn you in - why else?”

2D realises he's never really seen Murdoc eat a meal before. He's seen him have food on the side of several courses of beers and shots but never just sit and eat. There's something oddly intimate about seeing him eat shredded chilli beef, sauce on his chin, slurping his noodles.

“Who's saying there’s anything else?”

“So you just wanted to have dinner?” 2D says, unconvinced. “There's got to be something else. You’re Murdoc-”

“You’ve always got a plan,” Murdoc chimes in sarcastically. He finishes his latest Tsing Tao with a smack of his lips and leans across the table. 2D can smell the food and beer on his breath.

“Stuart.”

2D goes ahead and leans forward as well.

“Murdoc Alphonse.”

Murdoc’s lips twitch in amusement.

“Oi less of that. Stuart,” he starts over, mock solemn. “I wanna go on tour.”

2D puts in an order for two more beers then shoots Murdoc an uneasy look.

“Murdoc.”

“It has been five years since we went on tour,” Murdoc says, fixing him with an intense stare.

“I know.”

“Five whole years.”

“I know.”

The beers arrive and they have a drink before Murdoc points at him with his bottle. “You want to. I can tell. I can read you like a book. It's mostly pictures, mind.”

2D kicks him under the table and fights down his burgeoning smile.

“Have to be in a band to go on tour.”

“This band just released two albums,” Murdoc counters. “Gorillaz ain't over yet.”

They finish their drinks, pay the bill and head outside. 2D feels warm in the October air. Murdoc pulls his leather jacket on, lights a cigarette and casts a look around Chinatown before shooting a sidelong look at 2D, eyes glinting with a scheme.

“What day is it?”

“Er, Thursday.”

Murdoc grins and gestures for 2D to follow him. He does, hesitantly. It’s only when they’re turning the corner from Brewer Street onto Green’s Court that 2D understands and gives a little laugh of surprise.

“D’you think they still do karaoke?” Murdoc asks, peering in the window of The Drunken Monkey. 2D joins him. Sure enough, there’s the stage, the microphone, it might even be the same keyboard. 2D hadn't figured out his meds back then so his memories are hazy but he faintly remembers the cheers, the little spotlight making him overwarm and the way Murdoc finally deigned to look him in the eye. Murdoc hasn't stopped looking since.

Murdoc’s already inside, negotiating with one of the bar staff, when 2D decides to join him. After someone finishes warbling Adele, they both step onto the little stage and face the small crowd. Murdoc leans toward the microphone, expression overly serious.

“Hi, we're Coldplay.”

2D bursts into tears of laughter, gripping Murdoc’s arm for support. The crowd looks on, baffled. 2D catches his breath enough to say, “no, no, we're just two blokes.”

“Absolutely, just some blokes,” Murdoc agrees around laughter. Some people have got their mobiles out, snapping photos and recording videos.

“And we're gonna sing,” 2D looks at Murdoc hopefully, “Boston?”

Murdoc barks another laugh.

“Fuck off,” he says cheerfully. “We're doing Clint Eastwood.”

The MIDI track starts and they both cringe. They butcher it. 2D gets the rhythm wrong, Murdoc “sings” his bass line and they both try and fail to do the rap. Regardless, the crowd seems amused and sings along. They get a decent smattering of applause and Murdoc takes several unnecessarily deep bows.

“Thank you! Buy our new album, Plastic Beach!”

“And our other new album, The Fall!”

“If money’s tight, just get Plastic Beach! And come see us on tour, we're going on tour!” Murdoc booms into the microphone. 2D pulls it away from him.

“No, we're not.”

Murdoc yanks it back. “We're thinking about it!”

They dart out of the pub before anyone can approach them, wheezing with laughter. 2D, more drunk from the buzz of performing than the beer, grabs Murdoc’s sleeve and pulls him down an alleyway. They come to a halt next to a barbers, Murdoc leans against one wall and 2D makes a noise of recollection. He crowds Murdoc against the wall and does his best Murdoc impression, all sharp smiles, seedy looks and swagger.

“How'd you learn to sing like that?” The accent’s bad. Murdoc snorts and retaliates, going loose limbed and doe eyed as he looks up into 2D’s face.

“Awright darling, oh, Talent is an Asset, innit guvnor.”

“I'm from Sussex,” 2D laughs, leaning closer. Murdoc’s hands are already gripping his bomber jacket and dragging him down.

“Like I have any clue where that is,” Murdoc mutters and then 2D’s kissing him. Murdoc's fingers twist in the fabric of his jacket. They only break apart because Murdoc starts laughing again which sets 2D off too.

“What?”

“I,” Murdoc tries to collect himself. “I literally have a hotel room booked like, where're we?” he looks over 2D’s shoulder, “Yeah, five minutes from here, off Old Compton Street.”

Something twists in 2D’s stomach. He gives Murdoc’s arm a shove.

“Fuck off you're a-”

“A whore, I know, I know,” Murdoc says and his pupils are blown. “I swear I wasn't assuming you. I was just gonna go to some club. I've been living like a nun in rehab,” he complains dramatically.

There's no point in pretending he's not aroused because Murdoc’s watching him as intently as ever. He just leans in instead, expression mock chastising.

“A hotel off Old Compton Street? What club were you going to, eh?”

Murdoc practically shivers at the attention.

“Yeah yeah, that old chestnut,” Murdoc dismisses, voice gravelly with lust. “Which way does Murdoc swing? Such a mystery, will we ever crack the case?”

2D thinks he hears footsteps and steps back to look behind him. Nothing. Murdoc straightens up against the wall and 2D turns back to him with a mixture of hope and dread.

“I thought this was a fresh start,” 2D says softly.

“Fresh start, do-over, I dunno,” Murdoc shrugs, coming to stand directly in front of 2D, eyes dark. “I just want to suck your cock.” He makes an effort to look surprised at his own candour but doesn't bother with a retraction.

They're at the hotel in record time, Murdoc drawing the attention of the front desk with his emphatic insistence that no-one pay them any mind. 2D, to his own despair, is already hard by the time they've closed the door. He moans when Murdoc drops to his knees in front of him.

“How long’ve you wanted to do this?” 2D asks as Murdoc yanks his jeans down and off, muttering something about how ridiculously tight they are.

“Since I first heard you sing,” Murdoc says. Before 2D can reply, Murdoc goes ahead and starts blowing him, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

“Jesus, fuck-”

Murdoc makes a noise of approval which vibrates through 2D. 2D weaves his fingers through Murdoc’s hair and gives it an experimental tug. Predictably, Murdoc’s choked groan gets louder.

2D’s usually quiet when he's getting blown but he's drunk enough that his tongue loosens.

“I like you on your knees,” he says raggedly, “with my cock in your mouth.”

Murdoc’s eyes shut tight. 2D can see Murdoc's jerking himself off with his free hand and 2D trembles at the image.

“You like it too, don't you?” 2D asks and Murdoc makes a noise of desperate agreement as his hand moves from pumping 2D’s cock to cupping his balls. 2D moans involuntarily, both hands resting firmly on Murdoc's head.

“Yeah, you like- ah,” Murdoc's eyes open and they're looking at one another. 2D feels his climax build. He finds enough sense to let go of Murdoc’s head as he gasps, “I'm close, d’you wanna-?”

The minute shake of Murdoc’s head and the increase in suction is enough. 2D groans as he comes and the sound is practically pained. Murdoc gags slightly but stays in place a while longer, chin slick with spit and cum. 2D’s ready to keel over. Sheer force of will keeps him upright until Murdoc gets up ungracefully and hobbles to the mini bar, wiping his chin on the back of his hand.

Murdoc fishes a vodka miniature out of the mini bar and swills some before draining the rest. 2D pulls on his pants and falls back on the bed, heart still racing. He watches as Murdoc works a crick out of his jaw with one hand, the other cupped awkwardly at his side.

“Do you-” 2D starts dazedly. Murdoc disappears into the bathroom. The taps run, toilet flushes and he reappears, also wearing his t-shirt and pants.

““Need a hand”?” Murdoc guesses hoarsely, lying down next to him. “Nah, that did the trick.”

2D shakes his head weakly.

“You're-”

“A mess,” Murdoc agrees with apparent relish. He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at 2D, eyes roving over the other man’s body and face. 2D feels exposed but revered. He lets his eyes fall shut, smiling and stretching out more. The mattress shifts and Murdoc's arm drapes across his chest. Minutes later, Murdoc’s snoring. 2D thinks about booking a cab or a hotel room of his own but the familiar shape, weight and sound of Murdoc keeps him in place.

The next morning, he wakes up feeling fuzzy, head on Murdoc’s chest. The bassist is already awake, looking at his mobile.

“Morning sunshine.”

2D mumbles an acknowledgement.

“Bit awkward, you still being here in the morning,” Murdoc says and 2D tweaks his nipple in retaliation. Murdoc just chuckles.

“Easy tiger.”

“How much do you remember of last night?” 2D asks with a yawn. Murdoc looks down at him uneasily.

“Is that a trick question?”

“No?”

“Chinese, Tsing Tao, karaoke, blowjob,” Murdoc reels off. 2D’s surprised and impressed. “And now this. D'you still respect me this morning?”

“I’d need to respect you to start with for that.”

Murdoc chuckles again, reaching for his cigarettes on the bedside table and lighting two. 2D shuffles up the bed to lean on the headboard as they smoke. Murdoc gestures to his mobile with his cigarette.

“We made the showbiz news. Apparently you looked good and I looked less terrible than usual but we were both drunken twats who made arses of themselves.” He scans more text. “Oh they got in the bit about the tour, that's good, free press.”

“What would we tour?” 2D asks around his cigarette.

Murdoc briefly looks the happiest 2D's seen him sober. He quickly schools his expression to be nonchalant.

“I dunno, The Wall.”

“It's called The Fall.”

“I know, I'm being obstinate,” Murdoc sneers playfully and 2D pulls him into a rough kiss. They're waylaid by groping, then Murdoc offers, “Plastic Beach?”

2D frowns. “Do you really want to tour an album about your “mental disintegration”?”

Murdoc muses for a moment. “I'd like to say rehab has healed my wounds or taught me coping mechanisms or whatever but it's mainly just taught me that there is such a thing as too much speed and I could do with laying off alcohol a little.” He gestures to the lone vodka miniature on his bedside table as though it backs up his argument.

“What’re you on about?”

Murdoc sighs.

“I'm trying to say that I shouldn't want to tour an album about my own mental breakdown full of songs written by a frontman I held under duress but I do because there's something wrong with me and I love being on stage. I love music and I love playing it and I love playing it with you.”

It's so earnest that 2D’s eyebrows shoot up.

“So do you. Love being on stage, I mean.”

Murdoc looks uncomfortable with 2D’s silence.

“Either say something, let me clobber your head in with the room service phone or clobber mine in because this is torture-”

“Thought you were into that,” 2D mutters. Murdoc gives him a dark but amused look.

“You don't know the half of it sweetheart.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Did I stutter?”

Murdoc beams. 2D grins back at him. He feels sick with hope as he holds out his cigarette.

“To fresh starts?”

Murdoc taps his own against it.

“To fresh starts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that updates will be slowing down as I wait for more Phase 5 plot to emerge. As someone who's lived through the promise of a movie, holographic tour and TV series, I'm not holding my breath but ya never know.


	10. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape to Plastic Beach tour, European leg.
> 
> Warnings for brief mention of former far right sentiment, sex, language, potential drink driving and theft (it's a bumper warning sesh). Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: these guys are pretty awful, unromantic and very unhealthy. 
> 
> P.S. I've switched up the actual order of the tour legs just because.

_London_

The horns play as they walk to the stage. Then the strings enter. 2D hears the crowd settle into an expectant, buzzing quiet, still with that undercurrent of whispers and anticipatory cheers. The rest of the band walk onstage and 2D's sure Murdoc doesn't have to pass by him so closely. The arena screams with delight.

2D leans against the wall, shifting his weight from foot to foot as Murdoc jams around the opening to Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach. 2D takes a breath, like a diver preparing to descend, then heads out. He can't help his grin as the cheers reach fever pitch. Behind him, the back of the stage glows with footage of their collaborators. He heads to his synths, waits for his beat then starts playing, eyes closed, moving to the music.

“Mm, it's just like that.”

He opens his eyes when the song ends and is blinded by sparkling camera flashes. He spreads his arms, just for a second, and soaks it up. He can't hear himself laugh, it's so deafening, but he knows he’s laughing. He can't hear himself think but he's too drunk off the cacophony to be thinking.

2D grabs the microphone and heads to the front of the stage, much to security’s despair.

“Hello London!” he yells to the world. The world yells back. Murdoc sidles over, leering at some girls leaning against the standing section barrier. 2D reluctantly drags himself away from his perfect view to stand behind his synths again.

“We're Gorillaz,” he says as he slots his microphone back into its stand, to more thunderous cheers. He plays a few notes and the audience screams its approval. “This one's 19-2000.”

If 2D disliked anything about synth it was how he had to stay put while Noodle and Murdoc got to roam the stage. He'd tabled the idea of keytar a few times and been shot down on the grounds of musical range (Noodle and Russel) and complete lack of style points (Murdoc). The compromise had been Murdoc and Noodle agreeing to pay him visits while he was playing. Noodle shares his microphone for the chorus of 19-2000 and he knows they're both thinking about how many years they've been playing the song together. They share a smile.

Last Living Souls. O Green World. He can tell Murdoc gets a kick out of O Green World. It's understandable: the bassline is monstrous. 2D reckons he likes how the bass and synth fight each other, a not so subtle nod to their working relationship when they were finishing Demon Days.

Murdoc stands in front of the synth as he plays, looking into 2D’s eyes and it feels blatant. 2D returns the look steadily and sings right at him. Murdoc walks close enough to his back when the song finishes that 2D can hear him over the applause and cheers.

“After this.”

It's a promise. It's a threat. 2D feels ready to explode.

Straight into Stylo. 2D's tired and he's sweating under the lights and deafened by the choir and the orchestra and the crowd and he could die, right then and there and he'd be happy.

_Amsterdam_

_Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard this English Airways flight from London City Airport to Amsterdam Schiphol._

_May we have your attention while the cabin crew point out some of the safety features onboard this Embraer 190 series aircraft._

_When the seat belt sign illuminates, you must fasten your seat belt. Insert the metal fittings one into the other as shown and tighten by pulling on the loose end of the strap. To release your seat belt, lift the upper portion of the buckle-_

Murdoc leans towards Noodle. Across the aisle, 2D is already fast asleep, head on Russel’s shoulder. Russel's diligently listening to the stewardess because of course he is.

No-one’s sure if and when it ever got agreed but they always sit in the same configuration on four seats across planes because 2D can sleep anywhere since he has enough painkillers to knock out an elephant and Murdoc has never slept on a plane in his life and can't stand the sight of 2D out like a light. Russel’s too reasonable to move 2D even when he's flopped half on top of him and Noodle’s small so Murdoc gets to nick some of her legroom.

Was.

Noodle was small. Now she's just a few inches shorter than he is. She’s paying him no mind but he perseveres.

“You know,” he says in an undertone, “I've heard this so many times I reckon I could fly the bloody plane.”

“It's the safety demonstration. You're training to be an air steward,” Noodle responds, not looking up from the in flight magazine. Murdoc makes a thoughtful noise. After a while, he taps her on the shoulder and she looks up with a frown.

“Something from the trolley?” he simpers. “Tomato juice? G&T? Horse tranquiliser?”

Noodle turns a page. Murdoc goes ahead and pulls his own copy out of the seat pocket as though he hasn't read it cover to cover on the last four flights.

After the trolley’s actually passed and they've got their orange juices, he feels her glance at him and looks back, as neutrally as he can muster.

“I don't actually have those horse tranquilisers,” he says. “But I know a guy.”

“You didn't get a whiskey.”

“It’s before noon.”

“That's never stopped you.”

Murdoc shrugs and drinks his virgin screwdriver.

“You seem healthier,” she says.

“Relatively speaking. Don't ask me to run a marathon. Or for a bus.”

“Your last… decline,” Noodle says carefully, “began when we were on tour.”

Fasten seatbelt sign be damned, Murdoc’s ready to hunker down in the toilet until Noodle's lost her sudden interest in him.

“Aren't you concerned it could happen again?” she asks. His fingers toy with his seatbelt buckle.

“I think it was all the speed,” he offers when she keeps looking at him. “So I'm planning on saving amphetamines for special occasions. Birthdays, weddings, funerals.”

Murdoc regrets the word as soon as he says it. Her expression instantly cools. He considers pressing the call button and ordering a couple of highballs. Instead, he grips the armrest and plows on.

“I know it wasn't your actual funeral,” he gestures to her as evidence, “but… that wasn't my finest hour.”

“Correct,” her tone gives nothing away.

“In my defence,” Murdoc grimaces because he knows he's indefensible by default, “I was.” It’s feeling like those rehab sessions he'd bunked off, stormed out off and/or ripped the piss out of. “I was.” He doesn't know where he's going with his sentence. “I was completely heartbroken.”

Noodle considers him. Her hand, still small with those dainty fingers that made light work of rhythm guitar (and dissembling guns, Murdoc assumes), pats his as it clenches the armrest. Murdoc lets go to take her hand for a moment and give it a quick, grateful squeeze.

“Try not to slide again,” she says.

Murdoc fights down a laugh. They all know his life is just sliding from one astronomic error in judgment to the next.

“I'll try sprog.”

_London_

Murdoc insists on celebrating after the second London gig even though they're headed straight to Birmingham in the morning. They start in Greenwich, but Murdoc complains that it's too twee so they carry on down the road to Deptford and bar hop. 2D still hasn't processed that Noodle is legal to drink. It's odd to see her merrily weaving down the high street with Murdoc, side stepping bin bags and beer cans, peering in the windows of takeaways and dragging them all into a chicken shop for wings. He's unsure if he preferred the excuse of having to turn in at a sensible hour because they had a ten year old in tow. Judging by Russel’s pointed yawns, he's probably thinking the same.

They get back to the hotel around dawn, buzzed but exhausted. Like in Dublin and Manchester, 2D goes to his own room for a shower and fully intends to go to bed for a few hours before they set off. He lasts a matter of minutes before he gets back up and walks trancelike down the hall to Murdoc’s room. He knocks. Murdoc opens the door almost instantly.

“I don't remember ordering a prostitute,” Murdoc says by way of greeting. 2D gives him an unimpressed smirk but still proceeds to shed his pajama bottoms, pants and t-shirt before climbing on the bed.

“I was wondering,” 2D says as Murdoc shucks his own clothes and lays down next to him. “Since we're both still addicts.”

2D can’t remember describing himself that way before. Murdoc doesn't bother correcting him.

“Wondering what?”

It's obvious Murdoc has no idea what the question is but 2D can tell his answer is going to be yes.

“We should do like we did for Detour,” he says, leaning against the headboard. “You know, keep an eye on one another-”

“Totally depart from sanity,” Murdoc adds drily.

“Well less of that this time,” 2D concedes. “Other stuff instead.”

Murdoc’s looking at 2D like he's some sort of curiosity. 2D supposes he is.

“Still sounds like a total departure from sanity,” Murdoc insists. “That's how we'd sell bunking up to Noodle and Russ?”

“Yeah, charity. Helping each other out,” 2D says with a knowing smile. Murdoc's looking thoughtfully at the space between them on the bed.

“There's people who'd pay not to be in the same room as me, you appreciate,” Murdoc says and it's not as funny as it should be. “After Plastic Beach I'd have thought-”

“I don't think about Plastic Beach,” 2D cuts across. He'd dreamed about it in technicolour until he'd upped his meds and now he didn't dream at all.

“Right,” Murdoc agrees uneasily before going ahead and straddling 2D’s waist. They kiss for a while, 2D gripping Murdoc’s sides, until they start to grind against one another as they get hard. Murdoc reluctantly clambers off him long enough to hunt in his suitcase. 2D is ready to just lay down masturbating when he spots a piece of notepaper, a setlist, on the bedside table. He gives it a read.

“Where's Amarillo gone?”

Murdoc’s holding lube and a condom and looking at 2D irritably. He throws both at him and 2D goes ahead and rolls the condom on, slicks himself.

“We're doing White Flag instead.”

“Why?”

“If we're paying for an orchestra, we're bloody using it.”

“But-”

Murdoc is clearly torn between berating him and riding him. The latter wins out as he climbs back on the bed, straddles 2D again and starts to guide himself onto 2D’s cock. 2D grips Murdoc’s backside tightly, moving to meet the snap of Murdoc's hips. Murdoc holds onto the headboard as he moves, mouth open in a low moan. 2D looks up at Murdoc and gives his arse a slap.

“Faster,” he says. Murdoc swallows hard and obliges. 2D thrusts shallowly, feet braced against the bed.

“Want me to touch you?” he asks and Murdoc nods raggedly. 2D gives him another slap.

“What’s the magic words?”

“Fuck off you cunt,” Murdoc gasps. His hands drop down from the headboard to press against 2D’s shoulders.

2D gives a breathless laugh as he goes ahead and starts jerking off Murdoc. The bassist’s moans get louder.

“You like riding my cock?”

“Yeah.”

“You like me filling you up with my cock?”

“F- yeah, yeah-”

They're both losing all sense of rhythm. 2D grips Murdoc’s backside tight when he comes, fingers digging into the flesh. Soon afterwards Murdoc makes a complete mess of 2D’s chest. He grimaces but waits for Murdoc to catch his breath and stop trembling before he gestures for him to move. Murdoc all but collapses off him onto the bed. 2D ties the condom and heads to the bathroom to fling it in the bin, giving his chest a wipe down with a towel and appreciating his lack of chest hair while he's at it. Murdoc is still breathing like a wounded animal when 2D gets back on the bed.

“What porn do you watch?” Murdoc mocks, voice still thick with want.

“You like it,” 2D laughs. Murdoc doesn't disagree. 2D picks up the setlist again. Grabbing a pen from the bedside table, he proceeds to add every track from The Fall in between each existing entry. Murdoc leans over to watch, shoulder brushing against 2D’s shoulder. He laughs at the result.

“What a fucking nightmare.”

“Seriously,” 2D points at him with the pen, “if you get rid of Revolving Doors, I'll quit.”

“Fuck off will you quit.”

“I'll quit,” 2D insists and while it's playful, there's an edge of real threat, “then what'll you do?”

“Celebrate,” Murdoc counters, smiling. He takes the pen and paper, turns the page over and starts jotting down another list, pausing occasionally to focus intently on middle distance. With a flourish, he hands the finished list to 2D.

““Murdoc and Stu’s Getting Along Setlist”,” 2D reads out.

“A work of fiction,” Murdoc notes. Glitter Freeze sits next to The Joplin Spider, Phoner to Arizona slips between El Mañana and Empire Ants. It's actually not bad.

“You know the titles,” 2D says quietly.

Murdoc gives 2D’s K.F.C. tattoo a trace with one finger.

“Don't let it go to your head.”

In reality, they're down to playing Revolving Doors as an encore. 2D’s too bone tired and fucked out to say anything more about it and lays back. Murdoc joins him.

“Thanks for helping me out,” 2D murmurs, giving Murdoc one last look before closing his eyes. Murdoc chuckles.

“Always happy to keep an eye on my frontman.”

_Birmingham_

2D had remembered how disorientating it was, shifting between being cheered at for two hours straight to the mundanity of hotel rooms, planes and tour buses but it's still a shock to live it again after five years.

He remembers an analogy he'd thought of one night in Miami. They're aliens, seeing all this amazing stuff in space. When they come down to Earth, there's no frame of reference for the things they've seen and done.

He turns his phone back on after the gig and sees the text from his mum. She's asking how he's doing and telling him about a shopping trip she went on with some friends and he feels so distant from what's she saying. Guilt gnaws at him when he can't remember the last time he called. After the after party, after Murdoc's gone to bed and started snoring he heads into the bathroom, closes the door and puts his phone on speaker. He sets it on the sink and sits on the toilet lid.

“Hello Stu.”

He smiles sleepily when he hears her voice.

“Hi mum. I didn't wake you did I?”

“No no, you know me, I'm an early riser. Have you been to bed yet?”

“Not just yet. Sorry I missed your text.”

“Don't be silly. Get to bed soonish, you need your rest.”

“Yes mum. How're you?”

“Oh I'm fine. Your aunt Louise sprained her ankle at work though.”

“M’sorry to hear that, how'd it happen?”

“Wet floor. No-one put down a trip sign. Do you think she could sue?”

“Mum, I just did a law degree, I'm not a lawyer,” 2D explains, not for the first time. “But maybe I guess?”

“That's what I thought. Did you get your prescription through?”

“Yeah, all sorted thanks. Should have plenty ‘til we get to America.”

“I saw you on the telly.”

“Oh yeah? Looking handsome I hope?” he grins.

“When don't you?” There's a moment's hesitation. “Stu.”

“Yeah?”

“You're alright, aren't you?”

“Yeah course I am, why?”

“Well, you don't ring as often as you used to.” 2D knows what's coming next. “And I still don't understand what you were doing those two years.”

“I said.” The answer is well rehearsed by now. “I was at a Buddhist retreat and then Murdoc and I were writing Plastic Beach and we didn't want to get distracted so we ditched our phones.”

He doesn't think about Plastic Beach. It's beyond him why everyone else keeps asking. He realises he's clenching his jaw and makes a point of relaxing it.

“Right.” She still sounds concerned. “You know, they were showing part of your London show on the telly.”

“What song was it?”

“Oh I'm not sure, quite a noisy one.”

It doesn't exactly narrow it down.

“What’m I singing about?”

“Sounds a bit like Psycho.”

“Oh, O Green World.”

“That's it.”

“Did you like it?”

“It's not really my cup of tea, sweetheart. You've got such a lovely voice and all those effects make it sound a bit funny. I’m sure it's very good though. You know me, I'm not very musical-”

“How's dad?” 2D asks to try and stem the unnecessary apology.

“Oh he's fine, he's in the garage tinkering but he says hello.” Rachel pauses before adding. “It's been a while since you've told me about any girlfriends. Are you seeing anyone nice?”

2D’s struggling to follow her train of thought.

“I bet you have lots of ladies interested. You've always been handsome and now you're famous as well.”

He opts to just answer the question posed.

“No I'm not seeing anyone. Too busy, never anywhere long enough. Maybe after the tour.”

Rachel makes a non-committal noise.

“You know, after you had your accident, he would come and fetch you to take you to appointments and things. That's what they agreed for community service.”

Everything slots together suddenly and 2D fills with a quiet dread.

“Yeah I know. Well, I mean I don't remember but I know that's what happened because you've told me.”

“He'd knock on the door and be polite as you like, quite charming really,” 2D catches sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looks away again when he sees his queasy frown. “One day after I'd close the door I went to the window because I thought I heard the postman coming up the drive and I saw-”

“What?” he asks quietly.

“I must have just heard things because there wasn't anyone there, just you and him and. It was like a switch had flicked. His expression had just… changed. He looked at you like,” she sounds choked. “It was awful.”

2D is grateful they're not face to face because he's not confident he wouldn't cry.

“He was looking at you like you were… nothing.”

“Mum,” he says when he can trust his voice not to quaver, “that was fifteen years ago.”

“I just think, you know, you did that album on your own didn't you? And you could get another bassist, couldn't you? He's a bit of an odd fit anyway, he probably wants to play metal or something-” she speaks in a rush like she wants to get the words out before she changes her mind.

“Mum,” 2D interrupts, “everything's fine-”

“Remember Lucy from school, she was asking for your number the other day-”

“Hold up, hold up. It was fifteen years ago, it's different now, I,” he feels even more like an alien, he so lacks an explanation that will make any sense to her. “You saw the gig, he looks-” she's waiting quietly for him to finish his sentence, “he looks at me like I'm everything now.”

There's no agreement, no suggestion that that makes her happier about the situation. There might even be a teary sounding sigh. He hasn't visited Crawley since Plastic Beach. He knows she'll ask about it all if he goes and he just doesn't think about it.

“Don't worry about me, I'm fine,” he murmurs. “Look, I better go, we're travelling to Brighton in a few hours. I love you. Tell dad I love him too.”

“I love you Stu. Take care darling.”

As soon he's hung up, the bathroom door opens. He gives a little start before glaring at Murdoc.

“Did you seriously just listen to all that? I thought you were asleep.”

Murdoc holds his hands up defensively.

“I need a piss. It's a bathroom. You're on speakerphone.” He pauses. “But yeah.”

2D gestures him in but Murdoc just follows him back out to the bedroom.

“What about that piss you needed so badly?”

“My bladder’s not that decrepit yet,” Murdoc shoots 2D a scrutinising look. “I sound a right fucking sop the way you're making me out.”

2D just smiles, still distracted by the call.

“Fancy a post piss shag?”

“Not really,” 2D admits. “Should probably get some sleep.”

“Fine.” Murdoc leaves the toilet door open as he urinates, calling over his shoulder. “Sorry I'm no Lucy.”

“Your tits are way smaller,” 2D jokes weakly. “Murdoc-”

“I will climb out the window if you talk about your feelings,” Murdoc warns.

“We're on the fourth floor.”

“I'd take my chances.”

2D's almost grateful for the brush off. Murdoc joins him in bed with a yawn.

“You gonna take her advice?” Murdoc asks as his eyes fall shut. 2D wants to make another joke about Lucy but for all the ambivalence in Murdoc's voice, he knows the question is genuine.

“Are you?”

“Metal band? Nah. Too easy. Too obvious.”

“You'd be frontman,” 2D points out.

“I'll give Gorillaz a couple more years,” Murdoc says wryly. “See if it takes off.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” 2D grins. “I better keep my day job.”

Murdoc cracks an eye open, amused.

“Your punters will be happy to hear that,” he gives 2D’s arm a pat. “Get some sleep. I don't want your mum ringing me up saying her handsome boy looked tired on the telly.”

_Brighton_

After the show, they all head back to the hotel only for Murdoc to announce he's stir crazy and going out for a walk. 2D joins him and they wander around back streets behind the hotel, chain smoking.

“We could go to the beach,” 2D suggests.

“In October? No thanks.” Murdoc huffs. He eyes the handful of cars parked by the kerb. “I could do with a drive.”

“A drive’d be nice. I can't even remember when I last drove myself,” 2D says, making conversation.

“I hate being driven,” Murdoc mutters. “D’you still have that flick knife?”

“Yeah.”

Murdoc holds out his hand expectantly. Confused, 2D pulls it out of his jacket pocket and passes it to him.

“How’d you get on planes again?” Murdoc smirks.

“Checked luggage.”

“Gotcha.” Murdoc walks over to an ancient looking Vauxhall Corsa with a thoughtful expression.

“What-”

“Hold that thought. Stay here a sec.” Murdoc walks back towards the hotel. He returns minutes later with a wire coat hanger and 2D is none the wiser.

Murdoc unbends the hanger then rebends it into a hook as he walks, humming what sounds like an out of tune Murdoc is God. Sidling up to the car, he shoots a last look around the empty street then proceeds to ram the knife in the gap between the driver’s side door and the frame, wrenching the door wide enough to work the hanger inside.

“WHA-”

Murdoc gives 2D a warning glare as he maneuvers the hanger. Seconds later, the lock clicks. He opens the door, climbs in and jams the knife in the ignition. After a few twists the engine starts.

“Wh-”

“Shut your gob and get in,” Murdoc demands. “You're catching flies.”

“But-”

“You said you fancied a drive, so let's go for a drive,” Murdoc gestures at the wheel. “We can bring it back if it'll make you feel better.”

2D’s barely fastened his seatbelt before Murdoc's tearing out of the street. He grips the door handle and looks at Murdoc, bewildered.

“What?” Murdoc prompts him.

“You're rough as shit.”

Murdoc barks a laugh.

“It took you fifteen years to figure that out?” He speeds up as they turn onto the A road running along the promenade.

“You nick a lot of cars in your time?” 2D frowns. Murdoc pulls a face.

“We can't all be as la-de-da as you, Stu.”

“I wasn't exactly born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“Maybe just stainless steel,” Murdoc concedes.

2D winds the window down slightly, the cold air making him feel sharper.

“No spoon for you then eh?”

“Yeah, sans spoon, me.”

“Stoke isn't that bad, is it?”

“S’like anywhere, depends on the bit.”

“Which bit are you from?”

“The shit bit,” Murdoc bites out. “Meanwhile you grew up on a cul de sac,” he says with obvious distaste. 2D won't give him the satisfaction of agreeing.

“So, what, little Murdoc would nick cars, set fire to cats,” 2D reels off, watching the glow of the streetlights drag on the windscreen. “What’d your mum have to say about it all?”

Murdoc’s driving at well over the speed limit so 2D keeps an uneasy lookout for blue lights. Murdoc glances over at 2D and 2D resists asking him to keep his eyes on the road.

“You're not as subtle as you think you are.”

“Didn't think that was that subtle really,” 2D admits.

“Don't have a mum,” Murdoc clearly senses 2D’s next question. “Never had a mum.”

“What about your birth certificate?”

Murdoc's eyes narrow. “Alright, Morse. She's called Carol Smith. I reckon if she hasn't bother crawling out the woodwork now I'm a millionaire she's either not fussed or dead.”

“Your dad never say anything?”

“No, and now he's dead.”

That was news to 2D.

“I'm…” Murdoc gives him an interested look. “Not sorry?”

Murdoc points at him with a click of his tongue. “Right answer.”

They keep following the coast, heading for Eastbourne.

“What’d your dad do for a living?”

“Fucking hell, what's got into you?”

“I dunno, I just…” 2D looks at his reflection in the window. His eyes just blend into the night. “I don't know you at all.”

Murdoc’s response is near instant.

“You know me better than anyone.”

“Oh,” 2D says softly. He can't decide if that makes him happier or sadder. Murdoc drives a while in silence.

“He didn't do anything.”

“What?”

“Didn't work. Child benefits, incapacity, job seekers, you name it,” Murdoc mutters. He slows down as a speed camera comes into view then slams his foot on the accelerator once they've passed it, working fluidly through the gears. He drums his palms on the top of the steering wheel with a satisfied sigh.

“Fuck I've missed driving!”

“You're actually pretty good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well you crashed into Norm’s.”

Murdoc looks puzzled. “No I didn't. It was a ram raid.”

“I thought you just said that in interviews to save face.” 2D frowns. “Mum said you said you'd lost control in court.”

“I lied in court,” Murdoc says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I was always getaway driver, I ought to be decent.”

Not for the first time 2D is struck by how he would never have met someone like Murdoc in a million years had his life taken a different path.

“So you were-”

“Nicking synths for my band,” Murdoc says. “We'd just stolen an Astra and I was ready to drive it through the window when up you pop out of nowhere.”

“I was reaching down, unpacking some new stock. FS1Rs,” 2D remembers softly.

“Yeah. Well,” Murdoc shrugs. “Think we know the rest.”

When they get to Newhaven Murdoc pulls up and they sit on the beach, sharing the last of the whiskey in Murdoc’s hip flask.

“First girl you shagged.”

2D looks at him in the twilight.

“What?”

“You've been interrogating me,” Murdoc explains, “so: first girl you shagged.”

2D laughs softly at the memory.

“Julie Williams. Year ten.”

“In real money?”

“Fifteen. No, wait, it was April, fourteen.”

“Stuart Pot! What would your mum say?” Murdoc crows, giving his arm a shove.

2D squints as he remembers. “Round at her house, she was helping me with physics. I was shit at physics,” he grins. “Said I reckoned her bed was comfier than the floor.”

“Very smooth,” Murdoc chuckles as he lights two cigarettes and passes one to 2D.

“She asked if I wanted to see her tits and it sort of went from there.” 2D takes a slightly smug drag on the cigarette.

“First bloke you shagged?” Murdoc asks.

“You.”

He's surprised Murdoc looks surprised.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” 2D nods. Murdoc keeps looking at him as he smokes.

“Last bloke you shagged?”

“You,” he cuts Murdoc off. “Number of blokes I've shagged? One. You. Anything else?”

Murdoc turns pensive, smoking in silence. 2D finishes his cigarette and reaches out to touch Murdoc’s thigh. Murdoc turns readily to face him. They kiss slowly, 2D’s hand on Murdoc’s leg for balance, Murdoc’s hand cupping the back of his head. When they finish, they go back to sitting in silence but 2D keeps his hand where it is.

“We could keep going to Eastbourne, you could see your folks,” Murdoc suggests.

“They're not around at this time of year,” 2D explains. He's relieved. “Thanks though. Wanna head back before the traffic starts?”

“Sure,” Murdoc agrees quietly.

They climb back in the Corsa, Murdoc winding down his window in an apparent effort to stay focused.

“Should you be driving?”

“I'm fine,” Murdoc dismisses. “I've done stupider stuff drunker.”

“Like shag me?”

“Don't go fishing for compliments,” Murdoc smirks. He turns on the radio, scans through a few stations, thinks better of it and turns it off again.

“Can't believe we're nearly done with Europe,” Murdoc says.

“Always goes so quick.”

“Tour’ll be done by New Years.”

“Yeah.” They both sound melancholy.

“What then eh?” Murdoc asks.

2D doesn't have an answer so he resorts to humming, then, singing wryly.

“I just don't know what to do with myself.”

“Stick to the Dusty version and we're golden,” Murdoc warns, wagging a finger. “Stray into the White Stripes shite-”

“Yeah yeah, I know how you feel about the White Stripes,” 2D reassures him. He shares an amused smile with the bassist before carrying on with the song.

“See,” Murdoc says and it's soft but it's fond. It's so fucking fond 2D really doesn't fucking know what to do with himself. “You know me after all.”

_Berlin_

They have a couple of extra days in Berlin and Murdoc surprises everyone, himself included, by staying relatively sober the first night. The next day they do a quick round of newspaper interviews then spend the afternoon wandering around together. They get recognised a few times, see some sights and they're somehow still together by tea time so they grab currywurst at a takeaway stand. 2D’s deep in conversation with Noodle about something or other which leaves Murdoc to share a standing table with Russel.

“It's Ken, right?” he asks. “Ken Wood?”

Russel shakes his head wearily.

“You've made that joke a million times.”

“It's never not funny.” Murdoc gleefully slaps the table.

“It was never funny,” Russel corrects him but he does at least deign to smile.

“Seriously though, you're called Ron yeah?” Murdoc checks. Russel shakes his head with a chuckle.

“A Sparks joke?”

“C’mon, there's no music reference too obscure for you mate,” Murdoc says before taking a swig of beer.

“How's life Murdoc?”

“Can't complain, do complain.” Murdoc shrugs. “You?”

“Good. Glad to see you didn't dig out your old uniform for our trip to Berlin,” Russel says and Murdoc feels suitably shamed.

“Yeah, well,” Murdoc gives an uneasy grimace. “I used to be a massive cunt, now I'm just a medium sized one.”

Russel nods and eats some fries. Murdoc can see the cogs turning. They stand there in awkward silence until Murdoc cracks.

“Say your piece.”

“What happened on Plastic Beach?” Russel keeps his voice low enough that Noodle and 2D don't hear.

Murdoc skewers some bockwurst with his fork, expression souring.

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

“That's why I'm asking.”

“Fine,” he takes a bite and talks while he eats. “You've worn me down Russ. Stu and I-”

2D turns around.

“Eh? What's going on?”

“Nothing, go back to your girl talk,” Murdoc dismisses. Noodle flips him off and he shoots her a smile. When they've gone back to whatever they were chatting about, Russel carries on more quietly.

“You what?”

“We eloped,” Murdoc sneers. “We had a tasteful civil partnership ceremony at Crawley register office then jetted off to Plastic Beach for our honeymoon. I wore white. Elton John officiated.”

Russel doesn't even register his nonsense.

“Something happened,” Russel insists. “He doesn't talk about it. In interviews, he just lets you talk shit or goes on about whales.”

“Mate, have you met him? He's not one of our great conversationalists. It's all Phil fucking Oakey, football, creme eggs-”

“Murdoc,” Russel points at him with his fork. “I know you don't think so but it's our band-”

Murdoc shakes his head as he drains his first beer.

“It's our band. You almost broke it, twice. If you do it again…”

Murdoc scoffs the rest of the currywurst, staring hard at the table as Russel’s eyes bore into him.

“Well?”

A feeling of being cornered by his own decisions bubbles up in Murdoc, like his bullshit is piling up around him. It's Plastic Beach all over again.

“Murdoc?” Russel insists.

Murdoc’s attention snaps back to Russel as he chooses his next mistake.

“Don't worry, rehab taught me this great conflict resolution technique,” Murdoc sneers, grabbing his second beer.

“Oh yeah?” Russel folds his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, it's called fucking off,” he says. He flips the v sign at Russel and jogs to the kerb. 2D’s calling after him as he hails a cab.

“Murdoc? Murdoc, where are you-”

He's already climbing in the backseat when 2D reaches him.

“What's up? Are you going back to the hotel?”

The cabbie is clearly asking whether 2D’s getting in as well. Murdoc shakes his head vigorously in reply.

“I can come with-”

“Can I get five minutes to myself, fucking hell,” Murdoc snaps and 2D takes a step back, clearly surprised.

“I-”

“Kitty Club,” Murdoc says to the cabbie before 2D can finish his sentence.

The rest of the night is hazy thanks to who knows how many shots but by Satanic intervention he somehow wakes up in the hotel room. 2D’s laying next to him, wide awake but clearly tired.

Murdoc makes to climb out of bed, thinks better of it and slumps face down in the pillow.

“I wouldn't go in the bathroom, it's disgusting in there,” 2D says icily.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Murdoc mumbles. He's not entirely confident he's sober yet. He raises a hand to rub at his eyes and catches sight of the bruises on his arms. He remembers the spanking and slapping with a murmur of recollection.

“You and Russ had a fight.”

“Mm,” Murdoc agrees vaguely.

“So you went to an S&M night.”

“S’fucking Germany, what other nights do they have?” Murdoc dismisses, making another bid to sit up. It takes his breath but he manages to stay upright.

“I might have wanted to go,” 2D says softly and Murdoc scowls at him.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Did you-” 2D stops and shakes his head.

“Why d’you care if I did?” Murdoc presses.

“Why d'you think?”

Murdoc can't figure that one out so he gives a hopeless shrug instead.

“You could give me a smack if I've been bad?” he offers and 2D looks nauseated.

“You look like shit already.”

“Then you could kiss it better?” He’s definitely still drunk, he decides.

“Fucking hell,” 2D huffs, climbing off the bed and heading for the door.

“Where you going?”

“Out. You're alive. I've done my bit,” he says, already halfway outside. “Don't drink anything else before we go on tonight.”

“Yessir,” Murdoc agrees but the door’s already closed.

_Paris_

The Berlin show is passable, although Murdoc is obviously hungover. The band are still barely on speaking terms with him when they get to Paris.

It doesn't escape 2D’s notice how distracted Murdoc is as they start their Paris set. By El Mañana Murdoc's taken to walking from the orchestra to the choir, apparently speaking to the conductor and choirmaster as if playing is an afterthought. 2D can tell the audience is as confused as he is. He watches incredulously as Murdoc goes to talk to Noodle and Russel too, muffled words getting picked up by their microphones. 2D does his best not to look as livid as he feels.

Murdoc walks over to him as the song is ending and 2D wishes he could stop singing and lay into him.

“We're doing Phoner to Arizona next.”

2D almost loses his place. He gives Murdoc a baffled look. Murdoc slaps a copy of the Getting Along Setlist on the top of the synth with a mutter of “I changed my mind.”

El Mañana ends and the crowd cheers, albeit with an undercurrent of chatter.

“Sorry, uh, technical difficulties,” 2D says vaguely. “This is something from The Fall. Phoner to Arizona.” He fights a smile as a few pockets of the audience let out appreciative whoops.

After the encore - Feel Good Inc, Clint Eastwood, The Parish of Space Dust, Don't Get Lost in Heaven, Demon Days - they leave the stage and 2D and Murdoc move towards one another like magnets. 2D can't help his growing smile and Murdoc looks both uncomfortable and pleased.

“I thought it was fictional.”

“I said I changed my mind, didn't I?”

It takes 2D longer than it should to feel the extra eyes on him. Uneasily, he turns to see that Noodle and Russel are standing there looking at them expectantly. 2D suddenly appreciates how close he's standing to Murdoc and takes a step back.

Murdoc looks between Noodle and Russel apprehensively.

“I think I sense a band meeting coming on.”

“You sense correctly,” Russel agrees tersely. “Follow us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're gonna have to pry underclass Murdoc out of my cold dead hands.


	11. Interlude: 15 August 1997

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: language but otherwise fairly warning free. Imminent danger? Poor employment law practices? Lazy bar staff?
> 
> Happy (early) D Day.

Blip. Blip.

“Do you want any stamps or mobile top ups?”

No.

Blip. Blip.

“That's four pound five pence. Is the receipt okay in the bag?”

Yes.

“Have a good day. Bye. Next customer please. Thank you for waiting.”

Blip. Blip.

“Do you want any stamps or mobile top ups?”

No.

Blip. Blip.

“That's two pound fifteen. Is the receipt okay in the bag?”

Yes.

“Thanks, have a good day. Next customer. Thank you for waiting. Do you want any stamps or mobile top ups?”

“No. D’you want me to put you out of your misery and stick a bullet between your eyes?”

Murdoc’s head snaps up. Billy Boy grins at him, chewing his gum obnoxiously.

“You got my text then?”

“Yeah,” Billy Boy agrees. “I still don't need any stamps or mobile top ups, though.”

“Fuck off cunt,” Murdoc snickers and his line manager Kelly and the old dear stood behind Billy Boy look scandalised. “Look, I get off in two hours. You know where the Cock and Bottle is?”

“No clue. I thought London was meant to be better than Stoke?” Billy Boy says dubiously. “Looks like shit from where I'm standing.”

“You look like shit from where I'm standing,” Murdoc counters. 

Billy Boy gestures at Murdoc's purple polo shirt and name badge, teeth snapping against his gum. Touché.

“Welcome to Elephant and Castle mate,” Murdoc sneers. The old biddy behind Billy Boy looks ready to say something to Kelly so Murdoc speeds up. “Cock and Bottle - it's the other side of the roundabout, go out the main exit of the shopping centre, you'll see it from there.”

“See you at five, working girl.” Billy Boy winks. 

“If I've still got a job by then, twat,” Murdoc calls after him cheerily. He turns back to the old dear with a beaming smile. 

“Sorry for the wait. Do you want any stamps or mobile top ups?”

At the end of his shift Kelly tells him to leave his name badge and till card. Murdoc trots out of Superbdrug, yanking off the polo shirt and pulling on his ratty grey jumper and cross. He weaves through the zombie-like hoards of commuters heading for the Tube station, chucks the polo shirt in a bin and works his way across the roundabout to the ramshackle pub. Billy, Tiny and Crunch are squeezed around a table already weighed down with empty glasses. The locals, hardly genteel, are eyeing them uneasily. Crunch and Billy haven’t bothered to remove their helmets/hats, complete with goggles, and Crunch is wearing sunglasses indoors. Tiny is headgear free but wearing his perpetually constipated looking scowl. Murdoc is struck, not for the first time, by how big a bag of cunts they look. 

“So, what'd you drag us down here for?” Billy Boy asks over his latest Strongbow. Murdoc lights a rollie.

“I've had an idea.”

“Stop fucking press,” Crunch grunts. Tiny sniggers.

“Fuck off, I'm the only one who does any heavy lifting in the Chaotic Bastards.”

“I thought we were called Thundercunt?” Tiny frowns.

“No-one’d print it,” Murdoc mutters. “We need a keyboard player.”

“We’re a fucking metal fucking band,” Crunch eloquently argues. “Why’d we fucking need a fucking keyboard player? Do fucking Pantera have a fucking keyboard player?”

“Rocky can play keys and we don't need another bassist. We've already got too many fucking guitarists,” Murdoc explains.

“I'll skin you if we sound like Bon Jovi,” Tiny warns and Murdoc is absolutely confident he would. 

“You know what we actually need?” Billy Boy says in a shit stirring tone. “A new frontman.”

Murdoc’s ready to slap him but settles for stealing and necking the rest of his Strongbow. 

“If you lot are done mardying, I've already done the legwork.”

“What, some place in fucking Tin Pan Alley or something?” Billy Boy asks. “How’re we getting up enough speed to smash through a window in Soho? Or get away when we're done?”

“It's fucking stupid. You're fucking stupid Murdoc,” Crunch offers. 

“Would a stupid bloke get the Yellow Pages for nearby towns, look at the listings for music shops then do recces of their stock and the size of their windows?”

“Yes,” Billy Boy and Crunch agree.

“A stupid speedfreak,” Tiny expands. “Why can't we just nick shit in Stoke?” 

“Because Murdoc’s dad’ll kick his head in if he sees him,” Billy Boy says with obvious amusement. 

“Jacob’s seventy isn't he?” Tiny asks. “He'd drop dead if he tried.”

“If you cunts are done,” Murdoc grinds out, gripping the edge of the table, whether for support or to flip it, he's unsure, “can I outline the fucking plan?”

The three of them lean in to confer, their mutters interspersed with unimpressed glances at Murdoc. They eventually sit back, arms folded, and shrug at him to continue. Murdoc pulls out his battered wallet and takes out a neatly folded piece of yellow paper. He makes enough space among the forest of pint glasses to lay it down and the Chaotic Bastards lean in to study it. 

“Where the fuck’s Crawley?” Billy Boy asks. 

*

“You've got your bus pass?”

“Yes mum,” Stuart says, trying not to wriggle with embarrassment as his mum straightens his tie.

“Remember your dad and I are off out to the cinema tonight so you’ll have to let yourself in.”

“I'll probably just go ‘round Sam’s with Mike.”

“Oh, do you think Lucy might be there too?” Rachel says with obvious enthusiasm. 

“Mum, I'm gonna miss my bus.”

“Alright darling.” She stands on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “Have a good day.”

“Yeah have a good day Stu!” David calls from the garage.

“You too dad!”

Stuart listens to his Walkman on the bus, holding it against his leg to stop it skipping when they go over speed bumps. He thanks the bus driver when he gets off at Friary Way and hums along to ABC as he takes the shortcut through the shopping centre. He's too engrossed in When Smokey Sings to notice someone's calling his name and it's only the hand tugging on his suit jacket that jolts him to his senses. He pulls off his headphones and looks around to see all five foot nothing of Amy Collins.

“Alright Amy, how's things?”

She gives him an interested smile. She even looks good in the blue and orange Gregglands uniform, complete with hairnet and apron. 

“Where you working now Stu?”

“Norm’s.”

“S’pose that makes sense. You should get lunch at Gregglands.”

“Oh yeah?” Stuart grins. “Can you get me a discount?” 

She gives him a playful shove.

“Play your cards right. You still hang out with Mike and that lot?”

“Yeah, Leo, Sam, Simon,” Stuart agrees.

“Emily likes Mike,” Amy says, as though it's news to anyone. “We should all go to Liquid sometime.”

“Music’s a bit naff in there.”

“That's rich, I thought you were into Culture Club and stuff?” 

Stuart laughs. “They're not my favourites. Look, I better go.”

“Sure.”

He can't resist adding “but you and Lucy should swing ‘round Mike’s. I could show you what I'm into then, yeah?”

“Alright Stu,” Amy smiles, bottom lip caught in her teeth. Stuart has a bit of a swing in his step when he gets to Norm’s, bang on time.

“Mornin’ Norm.”

Norm doesn't look up from his handwritten shop inventory as he gives a nod of acknowledgement. Stuart spots a little kid hovering with his dad by the starter keyboards. He pops his Walkman behind the counter and heads over to the pair. 

“Hello there, can I help at all?”

They point to this and that keyboard and Stuart launches into his spiel about full sized versus portable, piano style keys, accompaniment rhythms and self teaching functions. They say they'll think about it so Stuart tidies up the music book racks.

“Did we sell a few ABBA books Norm?”

Norm grunts his agreement and Stuart makes an interested noise. He potters around the overstuffed shop, mind drifting occasionally to thoughts of Amy. The kid and his dad leave at some point. Later still, Norm looks up from his inventory.

“Stu, the new Yamahas came in on Thursday. Would you set one up?”

“Sure Norm.”

Stuart pops in the back and spots the boxes. He grabs one, brings it out front and crouches down with a biro to slice through the tape. The music books have got ABBA stuck in his head so he sings a little Lay All Your Love On Me under his breath as he works the FS1R awkwardly out of the polystyrene.

“And all I've summat, has summat summat, I beg of you.”

Stuart’s mind wanders to thoughts of how curvy Amy looked under her apron. 

“Don't go wasting your emotions.”

He gets to his feet, keyboard in hand. 

“Lay all your love on-”

He hears the roar of an engine and turns. 

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got a vibe that Billy Boy and Murdoc did stuff I'm not here to correct you.


	12. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape to Plastic Beach tour, US leg - East Coast.
> 
> Warnings: another bumper warning sesh: potential homophobic slur (YMMV), homophobic language, internalised homophobia/discomfort with sexuality, mean drag queen, social media/press being dreadful, problem drinking and drug taking and probable mental illness. These two are still really unromantic and unhealthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning for plot deviation (I'm unclear how much plot there even is for 2012 - 2016).

They pile into one dressing room, Russel and Noodle joining Jimmy in leaning against the row of dressing tables. Murdoc and 2D are left to sit on the sofa opposite and look up at them. They all watch each other for a moment. Murdoc cracks first, laughing as he shields his eyes with a hand.

“Sorry, this is feeling very “what are your intentions with my daughter”.”

2D covers his face until he's confident he won't laugh too.

“What just happened?” Russel asks.

“We played some music,” Murdoc explains sarcastically. “Judging by the cheering, I'd say it went quite well. If that's everything-”

“You can't just change the set mid-show because you feel like it. What's the point of sound check, rehearsals?”

Murdoc puts his boot clad feet on the coffee table and stretches out obnoxiously as he shrugs.

“Well I thought it sounded lovely. You know you and sprog can play anything you've heard a couple of times, where’s the risk?”

Jimmy’s watching 2D as though waiting for his explanation. 2D offers nothing.

“We overran by a half hour,” Jimmy says. “We're gonna get fined for overrunning “

2D glances sidelong at Murdoc. He looks annoyed at the prospect but shrugs again.

‘So, in conclusion, I should have told everyone that I'd changed the setlist, I didn't, it's done, lesson’s learned, we all move on,” Murdoc shoos everyone standing. The motion makes Jimmy’s eye twitch.

“Murdoc, we're firefighting the press right now.”

2D takes out his pill bottle and busies himself with opening it and taking out some tablets.

“About what?” Murdoc asks with feigned ignorance.

2D dry swallows the pills. Jimmy’s disappointed expression makes his stomach twist.

“You know what.”

Murdoc rubs his face melodramatically as he stares at the ceiling.

“Who fucking cares? Let them think whatever they want. I've already said I like to get slapped around by ladies in leather, what difference is this gonna make?”

“They're talking about the two of you.”

It’s not news but 2D is still tempted to check his phone and see how bad things have gotten.

“Well maybe it'll ruin pretty boy’s image but he's got enough bastard kids to be getting on with.”

“There's a principle here,” Russel says and Murdoc gives him an openly annoyed look.

“Oh goodie, I love a good principle. Do share.”

2D senses that, if Russel wasn’t so level headed, he might retaliate. He fixes Murdoc with an underwhelmed frown.

“Where's the trust Murdoc? I work with you - we all work with you - day in, day out, but I don't know what you're gonna do. I don't know if you're gonna show up to interviews, I don't know what you're gonna play at our shows.”

2D picks at the label on his pill bottle. It feels like the temperature is ratcheting up and he can't decide if it's because of how many people are crammed in the room or the topic of conversation.

“If that's the worst of your troubles, I think you'll cope Russ.”

“We’re in interviews and I don't even know what to say, because what’s true?”

2D gets the label off and starts folding it, concertina-style, with shaking hands.

“No-one watches a fucking interview for the truth. They want a laugh. Give the people what they fucking want, Russ, I've been telling you that for years.”

“I'm out here promoting an album I had zero creative input into.”

“It's your drum machine, your guitar programme.”

“Zero active creative input into and I'm being asked what happened on Plastic Beach and I don't know. I've listened to that album and I've listened to your joking and your stupid explanations and they aren't real. None of it’s true. What the hell happened on Pl-”

“ENOUGH.”

Everyone physically starts. Murdoc looks dumbstruck. 2D shakes as he gets to his feet, hands balled into fists.

“ENOUGH. I’VE SAID I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT PLASTIC BEACH. WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT IT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT WE CAN WRITE THE NEXT ONE WITHOUT YOU TOO.”

Murdoc's gets to his feet and puts a hand on 2D’s shoulder in warning.

“Easy now, let's not say anything we'll regret,” he says, sounding stunned. Still trembling, 2D looks around and sees how shocked everyone is. He's ready to apologise but opts for what he hopes is an authoritative tone instead.

“Murdoc can say whatever he wants about Plastic Beach because I am never talking about it. If any of you asks me about it again, I will quit and then where will you be? Do we understand each other?”

Everyone's eyebrows are raised. Then, everyone grudgingly nods, looking deep in thought. The anger drains out of 2D and he slumps back onto the sofa, head bowed. Murdoc joins him, sitting further away.

“Hang on. We've got a constitution.” Murdoc says. 2D’s always assumed Murdoc didn't know about it or pretended not to.

“Yeah, and?” Russel asks, turning his attention from 2D to Murdoc.

“Alright, good, then we're having a band meeting and I've got a motion, unless there's any objections.” Murdoc gives them milliseconds to interject. “Great. Item one: D and I are fucking.”

A collective groan goes up from everyone but Murdoc.

“No-one needs to know that, fucking hell!” 2D hisses.

“Murdoc you are the worst,” Russel says, shaking his head. Murdoc jabs a finger emphatically at Russel.

“But that's exactly my point. Item one.”

“I swear you actually like band meetings,” 2D mutters.

“Item one,” Murdoc insists. “D and I are fucking.”

“Please stop saying that,” Jimmy says queasily.

“Oh sod off I'm sparing you the gory details aren't I? And like I said, that's my point: you don't want to know. You don't need to know. No-one needs to know about our terrible errors in judgment.”

“And taste,” 2D adds. Murdoc snorts a laugh.

“And taste. So I'm tabling a motion that we turn a blind eye and focus on playing our arses off on this tour. Scouts honour,” he sarcastically salutes, “I won't switch setlists again and I'll save the bedroom eyes for the fans. You won't know the difference. If I remember correctly, the constitution requires a simple majority for day to day decisions so,” Murdoc puts up his hand. “I'm in favour.”

Russel and Noodle's hands remain resolutely down.

“Against.”

“Not in favour.”

Everyone looks at 2D. He toys with the pill label concertina, feeling their eyes bore into him. He looks sidelong at Murdoc and sees the assured smile he's shooting him. 2D sets the label down and raises his hand. Murdoc crows with laughter. 

“That's not a majority, that's a tie," Russel says.

"It's my band, I count extra."

"It doesn't say that in that in the constitution. And you get that there's nothing in there about having relationships with band members either, right?” 

Murdoc sits bolt upright and makes a noise of protest.

“Ah ah, let's not go throwing that word around, we're just… doing our taxes.” He gets to his feet and looks down at 2D expectantly. “Speaking of which, fancy helping me with my annual return?” He throws in a wink.

2D darts a look at Russel and Noodle. He's never seen them so disappointed. He gets slowly to his feet and mumbles an apology for yelling as he follows Murdoc out the door.

They leave the dressing room, then the arena, and stand shivering in the early morning air. Their coats were in the dressing room and the look they share says there's no chance they're venturing back in for them.

“Well,” Murdoc says, “that went well.”

*

**_Sanchez Carlton: Gorillaz GAY AFFAIR Rumors! How Long Before They Come Out?!_ **

_Things keep getting crazier!!_

_We've heard rumors for years about Gorillaz lead singer 2D (real name Stuart Pot) and bassist Murdoc Niccals having an on/off sexual relationship but boy has the heat cranked up recently!_

_First, the pair disappeared to Niccals’ top secret private island and reappeared with two new albums which fans claim are full of songs about their love affair. Now, they’ve been spotted leaving parties together and are even rumored to be sharing hotel rooms on tour._

_The pair have responded to the rumors in increasingly weird ways. When asked in an interview if they were dating, 2D ranked George Romero movies by body count instead. During another interview, when asked about their plans for the future, the seemingly high pair described their elaborate retirement plans which included opening a scone shop in Canada._

_It won't be smooth sailing for the couple. Bad boy Niccals infamously has substance abuse and anger management issues and has been candid in interviews about his bizarre sexual preferences, going as far as to claim he has a dominatrix. 2D also has a reputation for partying hard and has a number of illegitimate children, several of whose mothers have gone on record as saying 2D is a deadbeat dad. Top things off with the fact that they're coworkers and we’re dying to know how things will go! How do YOU think it will work out for the rock and roll couple??_

_FOR MORE GORILLAZ GOSSIP CLICK THE LINK BELOW!_

_Montreal_

The band’s frosty relations ease after Montreal thanks to their tighter set and enthusiastic audience. Murdoc takes advantage of the improved mood by insisting they all head behind their hotel. The bassist leads the way, holding a metal crate intended for stage gear full of what 2D identifies as assorted shit. Murdoc picks a sheltered spot behind some dumpsters, sets the crate down and addresses them.

“You're wondering why I've gathered you here.”

“Because you're a knob?” 2D guesses. Murdoc narrows his eyes playfully.

“If you weren't my accountant I'd sack you.”

“Stop using that metaphor, it's gross,” Noodle demands.

“Fair dues,” Murdoc smirks. “Tomorrow, we go to America.”

“We know. Is that everything?” Russel asks.

“Our US tours are cursed. Demon Days? Shit show. Debut? We’re never talking about that disaster. So, I'm gonna ask my mate to help us out,” Murdoc pulls old merchandise out of the crate.

“Your mate?” 2D asks.

“Yeah, my mate Satan.”

They share despairing looks as Murdoc passes them each some crumpled merchandise. 2D looks down at the Demon Days t-shirt and debut album tour poster he's holding. Murdoc gestures to the items.

“Step one: rip that shit up,” he directs, already tearing a t-shirt raggedly down the photo of his own face. 2D takes out his flick knife and makes short work of turning the t-shirt and poster into ribbons.

Murdoc fishes some tealights out of the crate, lights them and sets them at jaunty angles around it. He then pulls out his phone and starts playing some incomprehensible Nordic death metal. He finishes the set up by pulling out a bottle of Everclear and taking a swig before sprinkling some over the crate’s remaining contents and sparking his lighter.

“Do not burn this place down,” Russel warns. Murdoc’s already lit a scrap of poster and thrown it in the crate. The contents are slow to catch fire but after some cajoling, the flames grow.

“I've written a few words for the occasion,” Murdoc says, pulling one of his lyric notebooks out of his leather jacket pocket. He thumbs through the pages and clears his throat.

“Should I be doing this if I'm a Buddhist?” 2D pipes up. Murdoc stops in his tracks to glower.

“Still?”

“Yeah, still.”

“How come I never see you meditating or whatever bollocks it is you lot do?”

“Because you're never up before three.”

Murdoc finds his page. “Just go with it, Lama.” He clears his throat again. “Dear Satan.”

Russel looks ready to leave. Murdoc snickers, turning the music down.

“M’kidding, m’kidding.” He turns serious. “We made our own luck. We worked and worked and worked and we were rewarded because of our blood and sweat and tears and nothing and no-one else. We created this. This is ours and we have earned it.”

2D toys with the t-shirt scraps, watching how the glow of the flames make Murdoc's sallow skin warmer.

“We have been tested and we have tested each other. Some of us are bigger cunts than others but we all have our moments. We persevere. We choose to let go of the past and failure and loss. We choose to take control. We free ourselves from the burden of knowing we fucked up. We free ourselves from the fear of fucking up again. We free ourselves from the gossip columns, red tops and social media. We free ourselves to play music, inspire people and have a good. Fucking. Time.” He throws the ruined t-shirt and poster in the fire. The flames climb and turn the merchandise into ashy shreds in seconds.

“Ave Satanas!” Murdoc yells, tearing the page out of his notebook and throwing it in for good measure. The band throws more ruined merchandise on the fire and Noodle repeats the chant.

“I'm not hailing Satan,” 2D says. Murdoc rolls his eyes and pours more Everclear into the crate. The fire rages.

“HAIL FUCKING SATAN!” Murdoc insists. “Oh, and, P.S. I'd like another number one.”

“You're not summoning Santa Claus,” Russel sighs. They stand and watch as the fire dies back.

“Worth a shot,” Murdoc claps them each on the shoulder, lingering longest on 2D. “That ought to do it. I've got a good feeling about America now.”

_New York_

It’s Noodle’s idea to go clubbing the night after Madison Square Garden. Russel gives it a miss but Murdoc and 2D agree to join her. They get out of the cab in Hell’s Kitchen, jump the queue and Murdoc is simultaneously surprised and unsurprised when he looks around the club.

It's a long room with a curved ceiling and a stage at one end. It's also full of very polished looking men and a few woman who could probably bench press Murdoc.

“It's a fucking gay bar,” Murdoc says, mostly to himself. He spots 2D watching two guys kissing before looking away awkwardly.

It's not a leather bar or anything remotely interesting. It's all mood lighting, chart anthems and too much Lady Gaga.

“Yeah, it's a fucking gay bar,” Noodle agrees.

Murdoc considers saying nothing but 2D is already stood there dumbly and he senses Noodle’s silent need for acknowledgement.

“Because you're gay,” Murdoc says. 2D’s eyes widen as he turns to look at Noodle.

“Bi,” she says defiantly. Murdoc smiles. 2D puts an arm around her, giving her a squeeze with his head bowed.

“Noods, I didn't- I mean -” 2D squeezes tighter in lieu of saying more. She leans into his hold with a sloping smile.

“Explains a lot actually,” Murdoc mutters in a bid to diffuse what's shaping up to be an emotional moment. “Don't let us stop you in your quest for muff.” 2D squawks with disapproval but Noodle smirks since they both know he's incapable of being serious when threatened with genuine human connection. Murdoc gives her a brief, tight hug and kisses the top of her head.

“You're disgusting,” she mumbles into his jacket.

“So you say.” He can see some young people lingering a way off who clearly know her. “Don't hang out with us old farts. Fuck off and have fun.”

She obliges, sending them a smile over her shoulder. Murdoc turns to 2D who still resembles a guppy.

“Shots?” Murdoc suggests.

“Shots,” 2D agrees enthusiastically. They squeeze their way to the front of the bar, getting recognised as they go.

“Four shots of tequila-”

“Each,” 2D interrupts.

“Each, apparently,” Murdoc corrects, widening his eyes at 2D.

They lean against the bar, 2D’s body language speaking volumes about how little he wants to be approached.

“You alright?” Murdoc asks. The shots arrive and 2D goes ahead and slams his back at a speed that impresses Murdoc. He takes some pills with the last one and his expression visibly slackens in the aftermath.

“Did you know about Noodle?” 2D asks, dazedly.

“Not really. Shows how observant we are.” 2D just nods, so Murdoc finishes his own shots and gestures to the other clubbers.

“You’re getting a lot of interest, hot stuff.”

2D toys with an empty shot glass, smiling uncomfortably.

“I've never been to a gay bar.”

Murdoc makes an interested noise.

“Have you?”

“Once or twice perhaps, can't remember,” Murdoc recalls gossip columns saying he'd been seen pouring out of various bars in Soho but he'd never started out his nights at any or had plans to wind up in them.

2D looks at him sidelong before ordering beers.

The drinks and pills loosen 2D up enough that he eventually stops hunching over the bar. When the music improves he even joins Noodle and her friends on the dancefloor for a couple of songs. Some time later the music fades and a drag queen takes to the stage.

“Ladies and gentleman, Iva Pussy!” comes the announcement over the sound system.

There's cheers and whoops. 2D and Murdoc carry on drinking until they hear the fatal words.

“So, a little birdie told me we've got some celebrities in tonight!”

2D visibly bristles.

“2D, Murdoc and Noodle from Gorillaz have graced us with their presence. Why don't you come join me?”

Murdoc makes to get up and 2D grabs his sleeve. Murdoc gives him a questioning look.

“Why are you going?” 2D asks in an undertone.

“It's like a fucking panto, it's worse if you don't go along with it.”

2D studies Murdoc for a moment before trailing him unenthusiastically. Iva ushers them on stage to applause and wolf whistles. Noodle waves at some of her friends, 2D stares at his feet and Murdoc looks exactly like he does on any stage, lecherous and at home.

Iva, towering over 2D even in stacked heels and a beehive wig, gives them each a quick air kiss and presents them to the crowd. They cheer harder.

“Well, we’re really honoured you came out tonight. It's been wonderful to see you getting such amazing press.” Murdoc can tell where this is going. “I can't go online without seeing something about you two so the sex must be incredible!” The crowd “whoas!” and Iva pulls a playfully forgetful face. “Oh and you’ve got an album out or something, right? I'm sure it's great but would it kill you to write something for us queers? “All you do is dance?” To your music? Please.”

There's a roar of laughter and agreement. After the crowd settles down Murdoc borrows her microphone.

“My lawyers always recommend I say “no comment”.”

“That'd be a first for you sugar. Have you seen this guy’s Twitter?” Iva asks the audience. “It makes me look like I’ve taken a vow of silence!” Murdoc gives a guilty grin as everyone laughs. In light of Noodle's recent revelation and 2D’s clear unease, Murdoc's just glad to keep everyone's attention trained on him.

“Say Murdoc.”

“Yes darling?” he gets a crick in his neck looking up at Iva.

“Such a gent. I gotta say, when I saw all those rumours flying round, I had one thought.”

“What was that then?”

“How’d you get so fucking lucky huh? I mean, sugar, look at you.” She gestures to his customary leather jacket, cross and half arsed shave. “Now look at this twink!” She gestures to 2D, who forces himself to look up. The audience howl their appreciation. Murdoc's never seen 2D look so unsure what to do with a crowd’s attention.

“And maybe I'm a nasty old bitch but I couldn't help thinking how good you've got it because…” Iva makes a not so subtle gesture to her front teeth. The crowd roars with laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoc sees 2D go bright red. Noodle clearly notices too and leans into the microphone before Murdoc can.

“Iva, I love embarrassing my family but we should move on before our label shuts you down.”

“Alright, alright,” Iva grins, clearly sensing that 2D can't take any more. “Say, Noodle, how’d you like to help me judge our talent show? And by talent, I mean talent, if you catch my drift.”

2D is already stumbling off the stage and making his way to the exit, shrugging people off brusquely as they try to get his attention. Murdoc follows him. 2D keeps going, walking block after block and taking deep drags on a cigarette as he goes. They wind up at the river where 2D becomes engrossed in his phone. Murdoc assumes he's on Twitter judging by his scrolling and growing frown. Murdoc walks to his side and 2D visibly stiffens.

“They won't be saying anything worse than the press already have.”

“That's easy for you to say.”

“Yeah yeah, my reputation is shit, I know,” Murdoc dismisses.

“You didn't say anything though, did you?” 2D says, looking up from his phone to give Murdoc an angry, uncomfortable frown.

“About what?”

“About-” 2D looks uneasy.

“What, about your stellar blowjob skills? It's a fucking drag queen, Stu, what's it matter?”

2D says nothing.

“How’m I meant to correct him without telling everyone what we actually get up to?” Murdoc lights a cigarette and shoots 2D an annoyed look when he stays silent. “You think it'd be better if they knew I'm taking it? Mr Frontman can't have people thinking he's the one on his knees eh? Might want to dress like less of a poof if you're so concerned about that.”

“I'm going to a proper club,” 2D mutters, shaking his head as he googles options.

“Fine, but no fucking pop music. I'll blow my brains out if I hear more Katy Perry.”

“Who said you were coming?” Murdoc can see he’s already booking an Uber.

“Why not?”

“Sorry, hang on,” 2D rounds on him, jabbing his tightly held cigarette at Murdoc. “You fuck off in Berlin to be a fucking gimp or something, that's alright, but I can't get “five fucking minutes” to myself?”

“Russ had pissed me off.”

“Fuck off, everyone pisses you off,” 2D spits out. “And a drag queen saying I'm your fucking houseboy or something has pissed me off, alright?”

“What are you gonna do at this club?” Murdoc asks despite himself.

“What does it matter? We're just doing our taxes aren't we?” 2D says derisively, turning to scowl at the street as he waits for his car. “You can't have it both ways Murdoc.”

“But,” Murdoc isn't as sober as he'd like to be for a blow out. He knows he's saying things he should just think. “We've been doing our taxes for-”

“Years,” 2D agrees. He does some painful looking mental arithmetic. “Thirteen years.”

Murdoc works backward. 1999? Memories of Kong's foul smelling bathroom flood back.

“You're counting from Paula?”

As always, 2D tenses at the name.

“I don't know, when am I supposed to count from? From Tijuana? I mean,” 2D grips at his scalp as he faces Murdoc. “What are we doing? What are we actually doing?”

Murdoc just stares at him.

“What do you want Murdoc? I don't know what you want,” 2D says, sounding ready to cry. He stubs out his cigarette with his shoe and takes a couple more pills, mouth defaulting to a pained line.

Murdoc’s too distracted by the anxiety radiating off 2D to say “I want you”. “What's going on with you?” he asks instead.

2D looks alarmed by the question. His mouth works silently a few times. The Uber pulls up and they watch each other for a moment longer, 2D looking more broken than Murdoc can remember seeing him on Plastic Beach. 2D avoids his gaze as he climbs in the car and Murdoc lets him go.

He wakes up when 2D lets himself into the hotel room around dawn. He looks like the vacant singer the press make him out to be as he crosses the room tortuously slowly. His eyes are pits in his face as he returns Murdoc’s stare.

2D fumbles with his fly. It takes so long for him to appreciate that he needs to take off his trainers before his jeans that Murdoc is tempted to get out of bed and undress him himself. He eventually climbs into bed and leans across to Murdoc. Even with his deadened sense of smell, Murdoc notices the lingering smell of perfume.

2D awkwardly manoeuvres them both until he's got Murdoc’s pants off and is positioned between his legs, which 2D crooks at the knee, to some protest from Murdoc’s joints, and hooks over his thighs. 2D’s hands press down on the mattress either side of Murdoc’s chest and he rolls his hips, grinding down. He leans down to kiss Murdoc softly as he moves.

They're both flaccid and Murdoc knows there's no chance 2D’s getting an erection as drunk and high as he is. 2D’s movements soon slow to nothing but he makes no effort to change position. Murdoc cups his nape with both hands and they keep kissing until Murdoc’s back starts seizing up. He indicates that 2D needs to move and 2D settles sluggishly on his chest, a hand resting on Murdoc's upper arm, thumb stroking slowly until coming to a gradual halt. Murdoc goes cold until he sees 2D’s chest is still rising and falling. Murdoc takes a while longer to fall back to sleep.

_Detroit_

They linger over sound check at the Fox Theatre. It's beautiful, smaller than a lot of the venues they've been playing but ornate and opulent. 2D looks around with wide eyes, beaming as he takes in all the gilt and velvet. Murdoc knows he's been looking at 2D looking at the theatre for too long but doesn't bother pretending otherwise.

“It's like the Opera House,” 2D says as he tinkers around with To Binge.

“Sort of,” Murdoc agrees, lazily joining in with the bassline. “Bigger.”

“We should tour more theatres. Got more character.”

“Dressing rooms are shit. Tiny.”

“I suppose,” 2D smiles at Murdoc, nodding along to Russ' hi-hat beat. “I think it's gonna be a good one.”

It's anything but. Things start well but by the time they've got to Tomorrow Comes Today, 2D is staring into middle distance with a frown. He hastily takes a few more pills at the end of the song, something Murdoc’s never seen him do during a show. They don't seem to improve matters. Noodle wanders over to him and they have an awkward conversation during Empire Ants while 2D isn't singing. Noodle relays her findings to Murdoc in a whisper. He's got a headache, she explains, the lights are weird and different somehow, they seem sort of underwatery, don't they?

“What the fuck’s he on about?” Murdoc asks loud enough that it gets picked up by a microphone just as 2D's introducing Broken. They've never cancelled a show mid performance and Murdoc’s not about to start so he settles for keeping a weather eye on 2D as they play. For his part, 2D mostly gets through it, playing one or two notes so fractionally off beat that likely only the band and a couple of mega fans notice. He garbles and invents a few more lyrics than usual.

They play the encore, walk off stage and 2D says he's going to the toilet. Ten minutes later, a scour of backstage confirms he's left. Jimmy's instantly on high alert, yammering about Guadeloupe, the amount of time between the release of Demon Days and Plastic Beach and how he needs to get them all tagged.

“Do you know where he's gone?” Jimmy asks Murdoc, looking desperately hopeful.

“Yeah,” Murdoc lies readily. “Calm down, tell everyone he's got a migraine and let me sort it.”

Murdoc realises he's going to have to use the band’s patented Where Did Drunk Murdoc Go? technique to find 2D. He takes out his phone, opens Twitter and searches for Gorillaz. There's the usual gushing or trashing of the band, their tour and Plastic Beach, people asking what's gotten into 2D and a handful of tweets theorising about what he and 2D get up to, many of which are impressively explicit given the character limit. One message stands out.

_@gorillaz just been invited to a house party and 2D is here!! wtf is happening?? #houseparty #hessohot #plasticbeach_

He scrolls further and spots another.

_@gorillaz rave in detroit! 2D from gorillaz is here! #gorillazrave #plasticbeach_

Murdoc refreshes Twitter and there's more tweets in a similar vein, complete with photos: 2D drinking craft beer, 2D dancing and taking photos with fans, 2D messing around with a sound system in some ramshackle house. Murdoc goes ahead and messages an apparent attendee who has a photo of himself as their profile picture and, after some initial incoherent gushing crap, they give him an address. He gets an Uber and tells the guy to keep the meter running when they arrive.

The house is a rundown detached red brick set apart from the others on the street. There's colourful lights spilling out between the boards nailed over the windows and the music is loud enough that the ground’s vibrating. Murdoc rings the ominous looking doorbell.

A drunken welcome party greets Murdoc, looking ready to either faint or climb him. A cheer goes up and everyone's snapping photos and talking over one another. Murdoc's usually game for some ego stroking but he’s too busy thinking about the latest photo of 2D, passed out on a settee, surrounded by partygoers.

“I hear my frontman’s being a twat,” he says blithely. There's some giggles and a few concerned looks. A handful of people gesture down the hall while others egg each other on until someone finally yells.

“Are you guys together?”

There's a hubbub of chatter, ranging from people admonishing the question asker to others agreeing that they've got to be together because there was that moment at the O2, then there were those groupies from the Demon Days tour and when had either of them had a girlfriend lately?

Murdoc contemplates just decking someone. Then, he thinks about all the paperwork Jimmy would have to do and would moan to him about having to do. He surprises himself by just answering the sea of recording phones in a measured tone.

“You know, when I was a kid, back in 1666.” They chuckle. “People wanted to shag the band. They didn't give a shit whether the band were shagging each other. It's a brave new world.”

There's an awkward combination of laughter, apologies and offers to shag the band. Any other time Murdoc would have taken some offerees’ numbers but he just heads down the hall and finds the decimated living room. 2D is still passed out, legs flung over one settee arm, head lolling back over the other. It comes as no surprise to Murdoc that people are taking photos with him, regardless. He reminds himself of Jimmy’s potential paperwork, crouches next to 2D and gives his cheek a little smack.

“Ground control to Major Tom.” Murdoc shakes his shoulder. “C’mon face ache, time to go home.”

2D’s brow knits and he opens his eyes laboriously. He offers Murdoc a yawn then proceeds to close them again.

“Oi, focus.” Murdoc pinches his arm and 2D gives an exaggerated wince. “We’re going. Whose idea was this, even?”

“Someone invited me online,” 2D manages. A few people are clearly filming.

“Delete that shit or I'll make you eat your phone,” Murdoc growls. He realises a girl is hovering at his side and hazards a guess.

“You're MurdocLover66 I take it?”

She flushes and nods. She’s about Murdoc’s height and looks about as strong as him. He tries to prop 2D up into a sitting position and gives MurdocLover66 a look.

“Can you or some rugby player mate of yours help me pour this idiot into an Uber?”

She rushes off to grab a couple of guys and between them, they half drag, half carry 2D outside. 2D’s head lolls, partly due to the drugs and partly in an apparent bid to hide from the cameras being pointed at him.

They bundle him into the back seat of the Uber only for 2D to jolt when the door closes. He scrabbles to reopen it, much to Murdoc’s annoyance.

“Stop being a twat and sit down.”

“I don't want to be here. Where’s the robot? I don't want to be here,” 2D babbles.

“What?” Murdoc asks. The driver looks baffled.

2D’s looking around the back of the car with obvious terror. He manages to open the door and sets about opening Murdoc's as well, gesturing for him to get out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I need to sit in the front. She's in the back. I need to sit in the front.”

Murdoc obliges rather than argue. 2D settles once he's sat next to the driver and quickly passes out again. They’re driving back to the hotel when Ghost Train’s, or more accurately Sound of the Crowd’s, bassline starts playing near Murdoc’s backside.

He looks around and finds 2D’s phone under his thigh. The screen says Dad. Murdoc waits for the call to end but Phil Oakey keeps singing. He’s about to turn it off but finds himself answering instead.

“What time is it there?” he asks at the same moment David starts asking Stuart what he's doing and why hasn't he rung his mum, she's worried sick. David stumbles to a halt when he places his voice.

“Why've you got his phone? Where is he?”

It's been fifteen years since Murdoc heard David. He’d sounded desolate at the trial but then Murdoc had lied his arse off about what happened so David had thought it was all some dreadful accident. Now David knew what Murdoc was really like. His tone rivals Jacob’s in its disdain. Murdoc feels more at ease with the obvious disgust.

“He's asleep,” Murdoc answers honestly enough.

“Is it true?”

He shoots the car roof an irritated look.

“Want to get more specific?”

“He just takes tablets for his headaches, Rachel’s sorted out his prescription since he was a kid.”

“I sort of thought you'd be asking about the other thing,” Murdoc says to distract him.

David stays silent. His voice is low and dangerous when he continues.

“Why’d they let you out of jail?”

“Good behaviour.”

David laughs humourlessly.  

“You're the worst thing that’s ever happened to Stu,” he says.

Murdoc’s tempted to point out that 2D’s said much the same himself.

“I agree,” he says. It's just that he’s also the best thing, but Murdoc’s not about to point that out. There's silence for a time then David says “I'll have you arrested” and hangs up.

Murdoc turns the phone off and looks at 2D in the wing mirror. He's still dead to the world.

“I thought we weren't departing from sanity this tour,” he says softly. Fucking US tours. Fucking ritual. Murdoc comes to his senses enough to appreciate he's not actually alone. He meets the Uber driver's eye in the rearview mirror.

“If you tell anyone any of this, I will rip your cock off and shove it up your arse.”

*

 **_Sanchez Carlton_** **:** **_Gorillaz Lead Singer Found UNCONSCIOUS At Illegal Rave_ **

_It looks like history is repeating itself for Gorillaz._

_As we've reported previously, Feel Good Inc singer 2D (real name Stuart Pot) is in a downward spiral. Following recent performances where he’s seemed drowsy or erratic, 2D was found passed out at a Detroit house party last night after taking a reported cocktail of opioids and alcohol._

_Sources at the party say Gorillaz bassist Murdoc Niccals collected the barely responsive singer but there are no records of 2D checking into rehab facilities or hospital. When asked about the nature of their relationship, Niccals gave another mysterious answer, complaining about fans “giving a shit” whether the bandmates “shag”._

_2D has taken painkillers for migraines that have plagued him since the childhood fall that turned his hair blue. Following his recent decline, fans are worried that his drug use has become a full blown opioid addiction._

_Tragically this is just the latest in a string of misfortunes for Gorillaz. The band have suffered through the near death and subsequent reappearance of their guitarist Noodle, Niccals’ well documented substance abuse and rumored visit to rehab and the bizarre circumstances surrounding the recording of their latest album, Plastic Beach._

_The band are midway through a world tour and it's unclear whether 2D will be well enough to finish their tour dates. Official Gorillaz social media accounts have so far kept quiet about 2D’s behavior. Another source with firsthand knowledge claims that Niccals threatened to “rip off his cock and shove it up his arse” if he talked to the press about 2D’s condition._

_Our thoughts and prayers go out to 2D. Here's hoping he gets the help he needs soon._

_FOR MORE GORILLAZ GOSSIP CLICK THE LINK BELOW!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a tumblr now (elapsed-spiral) so feel free to come say hello.


	13. Interlude: 6 June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don't know how old you are. The other boys and girls get presents and then they're six instead of five and some of them have parties. The other boys and girls go to the parties but you don't. You hear them talk about them at school. They sound fun. You can't go because you smell and Jacob is a bad man."
> 
> Happy birthday from 1972, 1977, 1979, 1985-1988, 1997, 1999, 2005, 2008, 2010 and 2017. 
> 
> Standalone chapter, character study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: child abuse (neglect, verbal and physical abuse) and homophobic language. Second person POV. Unbetaed. 
> 
> This chapter is relatively standalone but takes place in this universe, subject to any weird and wonderful revelations coming out of Phase 5.

**1972**

You don't know how old you are. The other boys and girls get presents and then they're six instead of five and some of them have parties. The other boys and girls go to the parties but you don't. You hear them talk about them at school. They sound fun. You can't go because you smell and Jacob is a bad man.

You wonder if you're still a baby because you haven't had birthdays. You don't ask. After school you find a bag of cold chips on the floor by the settee and eat some. They’re wet and sour. You’ve eaten three when Jacob crashes through the front door. He sees the chips and gives you a smack round the head. It hurts like normal.

“Second place doesn't get tea,” he slurs. He picks up the chips and puts them in the bin.

“You gonna win next time?”

You know the right answer.

“Yes.”

“If you don't I'll get rid of you. Dump you on the council.”

You think you might like that. But when you win you get hot chips and sometimes people clap or cheer.

“I'll win.”

He raises his hand again and you flinch. He grins and lowers it before stumbling upstairs.

You wait until his bedroom door shuts then creep to the bin and quietly take the chips back out.

**1977**

“Oi, gaylord!”

You slow to a halt in the corridor and feel yourself start to sweat.

“Oi gaylord, look at me when I'm talking to you.”

You swallow hard and turn to face Tony Chopper. He's had a growth spurt so you have to tilt your head.

“Heard it’s your birthday. What’d your mum get you?”

You've been practicing back at the house while Jacob’s down the pub. You take a deep breath to ready yourself.

“Forgot how to talk, reject?”

“Your dad should have had a vasectomy.”

Tony stares at you blankly.

“What's that mean?”

“Where they chop your bollocks off so you don't have cunty kids like you.”

Tony flinches like you've slapped him across his fat, greasy, ugly, spotty face. You feel electric.

“I guess they spent the money on your lobotomy instead.”

Tony continues to gawp. Your heart beats ten to the dozen. You feel alive, you feel smart. You-

You feel a crunch as his fist connects with your nose. You see stars and consider swinging at him but Mr Gravadlax is coming round the corner so you leg it for the fire exit instead. You run back to the house, the pain growing and growing, hot like a burn. You look down and see bright red blood spattered down your school shirt and tie. You can't breathe right so you're wheezing by the time you tear down the jitty, let yourself in the backyard and scrabble over the assorted shit piled there to open the back door.

“What’re you doing back already?” Jacob barks from the living room. He lurches up from the settee and looks stunned at the sight of you.

“The fuck happened to you?”

Your face is throbbing with pain and you've never felt better.

“I told Tony Chopper his dad should have got a vasectomy because he's a cunt,” you say matter of factly. Jacob watches you for a moment before laughing like he's drunker than he is. You grin back.

“Fucking twat,” he says but it's not cruel like usual, it's amused. “S’it hurt?”

“Like a bitch.”

He goes back to the living room, reaches behind the settee and throws you a bottle of rum.

“That'll sort you out. Go look in the mirror, you look a right sod.”

You drink the rum as you walk upstairs and wonder if it counts as a present. You do a double take when you see your reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror: your nose is unrecognisable. You tentatively touch it, try and straighten it out but hiss at the pain and drink more rum instead.

You keep looking at your reflection, fascinated at the unfamiliar face staring back at you and wondering if it'll ever go back to normal. 

**1979**

You mark becoming a teenager by stealing a suspiciously nice bike you see parked outside the post office. It's probably already been nicked once so it's just further redistribution of wealth at this point, you reckon.

You take some Scrumpy Jack from the corner shop and make good your escape on the bike. You ride around long enough that the sky changes from inky blue to orangey yellow with the rising sun. You discover new alleyways and shortcuts and you think you'd make a good getaway driver, like in those movies you watch late at night while waiting for Jacob to return.

You could drive anywhere if you were a getaway driver, right past the sign that says Welcome to Stoke-on-Trent to Derby or Nottingham or Liverpool, anywhere. Just not London because London’s full of poofs, Hannibal says.

**1985**

“We're Patchouli Clark.” You rearrange your bouffant fringe when it falls over your eye for the umpteenth time. Dave finishes tweaking the ends of the moustache you convinced him to grow and starts playing his keyboard. “This is our new song, Adulterated Adoration.”

The locals of the Ivy Leaf in Bentilee - average age seventy, every one of them with a face like a slapped arse - look highly dubious. A few are muttering that you look like a pair of bum bandits but the sods wouldn't know art if it bit them. One ruddy faced drinker looks up when you start “singing” and not just because you're a little (a lot) off key.

“Isn't this just Tainted Love with different lyrics?”

You share a look with Dave who seems alarmed at being found out so quickly. You're not sure what he thinks will happen: it's not like Ed Cobb is going to come crashing through the door demanding royalties.

“Well, it was inspired by Soft Cell but-”

The clever cunt starts booing and the rest of the locals think that’s more entertaining than your music and join in. You quake with anger. Jacob’s long since barred from the Ivy Leaf but you readily imagine how he'd react to the reception you're getting. This isn't how it’s meant to go. This is meant to be you, on your way. Next stop: record deal, more women than your tongue can handle and more money than god.

Dave is unplugging his keyboard, ready to leave, but you reckon the booing sod needs putting in his place. That's what you tell the police when they yank the broken pint glass from your hand, slap the cuffs on and take you to the station for the night.

Not everyone can say their first gig made page seven of the Stoke Sentinel. 

**1986**

“We’re Kiss n Make Up,” you tell the locals at the Oakwood Arms in Longton, rubbing a bit of stray white grease paint from your hand onto the back of your jeans. “This is our new song, I Was Made For Fucking You.”

You've barely started playing your guitar when some sod pipes up. You swear it’s that prat from the Ivy Leaf.

“Isn't this just I Was Made For Loving You with different lyrics?”

You claim provocation when the police arrive. When they let you go in the morning and you're back at the house, Jacob says you're giving him a run for his money with the number of pubs you're getting barred from.

“Like father, like son,” he slurs. You find a bottle of rum down the back of the settee and finish it. 

**1987**

For the first time in your life Hannibal calls you on your birthday but it's only to laugh, loudly and at length, at how Motley Dude’s debut single Gals, Gals, Gals, went down at the Cock Inn in Fenton. He can laugh all he wants, you say, because this is your year.

**1988**

Twenty one wasn't your year. Twenty two, though. 

**1997**

In a fit of desperation, inspiration and speed, you make various trips to the commuter belt to grab as many different Yellow Pages as you can find. You spread them out on the floor of your box room in Elephant and Castle and thumb through ads for music shops, circling candidates for your “shopping spree”. You fancy a nice synth as a late birthday present.

**1999**

You walk into Kong’s kitchen some time after noon if your body clock's anything to go by. Fittingly, you're in your birthday suit, save for the pants and cross.

The kitchen table is heaped with empty takeaway trays, dirty glasses and beer cans but balanced on top of all that there's a bright yellow envelope. Sitting down with your morning cider, you spot that the envelope’s got “Murdoc” written on it. Suspicious, you rip it open and look at the stripy card within. It says “Happy Birthday” on the front. You glance inside to see sloppy handwriting telling you to “Have a Happy Birthday from 2D”. You turn it over. That's it. You look inside again as though you're missing something.

“Happy Birthday,” 2D says when he joins you in the kitchen midway through your cider. He goes about shoving a frozen pizza in the oven and there's a tension in his shoulders that speaks to how you're still feeling each other out after what happened with Paula.

He’s got A Levels, talks about this or that mate and going to the seaside or clubs with this or that bird. He asked if Kong had a landline because he wants to call his parents. He calls them frequently. You've been struck more than once by how, were it not for your unfortunate, very accidental accident (and the other equally accidental crash at Tesco) you'd never have met someone like Stuart Harold Pot in a million years. Or lived in Essex. The bloke can sing like Bowie and Mercury and McCartney had a lovechild though and you still reckon there's a chance he might shag you. This is going to be your year.

You want to ask him what the card is for but you're not a moron, you know. You just don't get why. You don't get what possessed the twat to trek to Tesco, a fifteen minute walk down the hill, pick a card, presumably buy it for 59p according to the label on the back, walk back up to Kong and write on it. Thinking about it makes your jaw clench.

“Yeah cheers mate, I'll cherish it always,” you say, waving the card with a sneer. He flinches at your words and watches the pizza cook, crestfallen. You finish your cider in silence.

**2005**

Your 39th falls during the Demon Days Detour. You celebrate by telling your adoring listeners how you're the second coming of Satan and that you're bigger than the Beatles being bigger than Jesus. The radio station cuts to commercials.

You also take enough speed that you briefly wonder if you'll make it to 40. Then you feel inspired to lock yourself in your tour bus and write several sets of lyrics, some melodies that have been floating around in your head and toy with grand ideas for concept albums. You've practically got a Demon Days follow up ready to go if you can just make out your own scribbles (you can't).

You're tempted to go out on the tiles and find someone to help you celebrate. Maybe several people. Some girl to sit on your face while another sits on your cock. But, you remember with a flinch, the fans are turning rabid with this new, intergalactic, mega-stardom of yours. They'll probably steal your organs or have your kids or nick your notebooks.

It's safer to stay in the tour bus and ignore the texts and raps at the door. You end the day with a treat, though, since it’s your birthday and all. You lie back, work down your jeans and pants and imagine blue hair, big hands and pitch black eyes.

**2008**

You don't know how old you are. Maybe you've been alive since the dawn of time. It feels like it sometimes.

The Boogieman assures you all that matters is you're a murderer but Noodle insists you that you're not, placing her cold metal hand on yours as you drink drink drink. You'd spotted the date when you'd looked at your phone. You'd thought you'd heard a text. There was nothing.

“It's my birthday,” you tell Noodle and she stares back blankly. “What should I get for my birthday?”

“I do not know, sir.”

You cast around. It's true that you need a new studio because you burned the other one down and there's only so much hotel hopping you can do now the press have gotten bored and you're All Alone. The last few business deals/cons have paid off nicely and you’ve got the insurance cheque burning a hole in your pocket.

It's time for a new album and maybe that's how you fix everything. The Boogieman agrees and you can't decide if that’s a good or a bad thing anymore.

You look at studios in England but they're a bit boring and England’s full of people who think you're a monster who killed his guitarist. Which you did. You did. You did that. You did that. Oh god you-

You drink. Your mind wanders.

Jamaica. You remember that trip, how fun it was, how much you all enjoyed it and how ridiculous your tan lines were. You and Stu smoked a lot of weed and at some point he stopped looking like he thought you were going to get him in trouble and started looking at you like… you're not sure. Like maybe you would deliver on your promises.

You look at studios in hot places, tropical islands, and let yourself imagine what it might be like to deliver on your promises again.

**2010**

There’s a painting on the wall above the therapist’s head. It's of a tree, an oak you think, large, verdant and sun dappled. You look at the therapist. She watches you. You study the tree again, how broad the trunk is, how patches of sky are visible through the leaves.

“You might find talking helpful.”

Your cheek twitches and you cross your arms as you meet her eye.

“So you've said. And I've said I'm here to keep my liver from packing up. If I'd known this bollocks was part of rehab I’d have taken my massive sack of cash elsewhere,” you lie. She nods.

“I don't do this shit.”

“What shit would that be?”

She's being a smart arse, tricking you into digging yourself a deeper hole and you know you're falling for it.

“The shit where I share my feelings. Not my style.”

Her counter argument is so predictable you brace for impact, pressing the soles of your boots hard against the floor.

“You're a lyricist.”

You study the tree so intently you're confident you could find it in a forest.

“Correct.”

You're tempted to insist your lyrics are bollocks but you can't sell yourself that short. You refuse. The silence drags on and on.

“I've won a Grammy and got a number one.” It's no Best Album Grammy but you can't help that people have no taste. A Grammy is a Grammy is a Grammy. She nods and there's more silence. You check your Rolex.

“It's my birthday today.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything you'd like for your birthday?”

“You offering?” you leer. She's tricking you again and you’re falling for it again. You play with one of your rings, turning it back and forth on your finger as far as it will go. You address your hand.  

“Listen to Plastic Beach then tell me what I want for my birthday,” you say, swallowing hard. “What am I even paying you for? I'm doing your fucking job for you.”

**2017**

You wake up to the gentle sensation of something being placed on your chest. You look down and see a card in a blue envelope. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up, yawning, and open it. He’s sat beside you, fully clothed in one of those ridiculously low cut shirt and paper bag trouser combos he's favouring recently. You want to lean in and kiss a trail down the skin on show. He sees you looking and smiles, giving the card a tap to focus your attention again.

““Happy Birthday Twat”,” you read aloud with a smirk. “Well that's pithy.”

“Birthday cards have come a long way this last decade,” he agrees. You cast your eye over the message - long but not weirdly so, not flowery but earnest enough that you have to tamp down on your natural reflex to scoff or escape. His eyes are roving over you and then, decision apparently made, he straddles your lap. You rest your hands gently on his backside, looking up into his face wonderingly.

“Happy Birthday old man,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you and your heart feels too large for your chest (it probably is, given all your medical issues).

“Big 4 0 next year,” your thumbs stroke his jean clad thighs. “Pretty boy no more.”

“We'll have to do something special.”

“I'll jump out of a cake wearing a thong.”

He wrinkles his nose but he's still smiling.

“Less special than that.”

“I'll come up with something.”

“Yeah?” He smooths a hand over your hair. It winds up cupping your cheek and you turn your head enough to kiss the palm.

“You know me, I always deliver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swing by tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like to chat about these two sad blokes.


	14. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape to Plastic Beach tour, US leg - Midwest and West Coast.
> 
> Warnings for sex, substance abuse, threatened violence and undiagnosed mental illness/trauma. Very unhealthy relationships; troubled people trying and failing to fix one another. Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NGL, this is the bleakest chapter yet. Some people may find this chapter distressing, so please message me if you would like more detailed content warnings.

_ Chicago  _

2D had mostly avoided press attention over the years thanks to Murdoc being a rent-a-quote hedonist. That changes after Detroit. 

He heads out of the hotel at noon to get a smoothie, leaving Murdoc snoring like a lawnmower. He's ambling towards Grant Park when the yelling starts. 

“2D! 2D, how's it going?”

He turns to see three men with cameras and a fourth recording on a phone. 2D blinks as the cameras flash. 

“Fans are worried. Are you alright?” 

He looks between the men, squinting as the cameras keep flashing, then carries on the way he’s headed. The man with the phone circles in front of him. 

“Where's Niccals?”

“At the hotel,” 2D offers blandly.

“Are you sharing a room again?”

2D looks wistfully at the beautiful red orange yellow of the leaves over the man's shoulder. 

“Are you? That's what everyone's saying.”

2D reluctantly looks back at the man.

“You went to a gay bar in New York. Why's that?” 

He takes a sip of his smoothie and wishes he’d brought headphones to wear. 

“Noodle was with you.”

“Yeah.”

2D walks around the man but the four of them trail him. He strolls up to the impressive fountain at the end of the path and takes in the numerous jets of water and the statues at the base. Bystanders have turned to watch the commotion, a handful apparently recognising him. One girl in particular is clearly starstruck and keeps darting looks his way that suggest she wants to speak to him. The journalist seems to be deterring her. 

“Why was Noodle there 2D?”

2D stares into the fountain, at the water. There's so much water. His mouth goes dry.

“Is she gay? Is that it?”

He’s unaware of making an active decision. One second he's staring at the water, the next he's thrown the smoothie not so much at the journalist but close enough that the man gets some cucumber, kale, broccoli, spinach and apple up his trouser leg. The cameras click frantically. 

“Leave her alone,” 2D steps closer to the journalist who looks a sickening combination of alarmed and delighted with the way things are playing out. He's trying and failing to read the look in his eyes, 2D knows. 

“Leave her alone, alright?”

“People just want to know the truth.”

2D hears the water gush and splash behind him. Everything smells rotten and he's sure he's going to die here. He swallows down bile as he stumbles away from the fountain, catching the girl’s eye as he goes. She looks scared by his behaviour. 

2D heads back the way he came, leaving the journalist in his wake tapping frantically at his phone. The paparazzi follow him to the hotel as he shields his face with one hand. Like vampires, they don't cross the threshold. He gets in an empty lift, leaning heavily against the wall as it ascends, pulling out his pills and taking a few. 

He wanders through the long hallways lined with identical doors. He happens upon the occasional person letting themselves into or out of a room but keeps moving, trancelike. When the tablets make him feel nice and sluggish he checks the number on his key card, gets back in the lift, takes a couple more pills and presses the button for his floor. 

He fumbles the door open and sees Murdoc’s awake and looking at his phone in bed. 

“Waste of a good drink.”

2D shakes his head as he pulls off his trainers and sits down beside him. 

“It only just happened, how is it already news?”

“In the loosest possible sense.” Murdoc holds his phone out to 2D to read some gossip piece.

““Gorillaz frontman goes apeshit”.” 

“I've had that one. “Also “Gorillaz bassist goes bananas”. Not really your style, punching the press.”

“I didn't punch the press.”

“They're saying you threatened to.”

2D tries to recall. He remembers the acidic taste in his mouth and stops thinking.  

“They were asking if Noodle's gay.”

Murdoc’s expression darkens. 

“You should have rung me so I could’ve come and kicked the shit out of them.”

“Because that would have helped.”

2D clicks through to another article, an interview with his aunt Claire’s ex-husband Steve. Steve’s saying how he always knew Stuart was gay, how he remembers him taking an interest in boys at school and how he listened to lots of New Romantic bands because the singers were all dolled up. The last time 2D can remember seeing Steve was Christmas at his gran’s when he was fourteen. They'd set up Mouse Trap together and laughed at how difficult the board was to assemble. The next article insinuates that he’d fancied Mike, which is the most ridiculous thing 2D can think of but explains all the texts he's gotten from Mike recently. He hasn't read any of them and has no plans to now. 

“Is this what it's like being you?” 2D asks, closing his eyes. It feels like there's a scream stuck in his throat.

“Sort of, ‘cept most of the stuff they print about me is true.”

2D takes a slow breath in and out. He can sense Murdoc thinking loudly next to him. The man doesn't stay quiet for long because he's practically incapable. 

“Why don't we just say what we're doing?”

2D wishes, not for the first time, that he had his own room again. He keeps flicking through articles on Murdoc’s phone until Murdoc plucks it from his hand and fixes him with a look. 

“Well? I don't think it'll make any difference. No such thing as bad press.”

“We've had this conversation.”

“When?”

“We've had a version of it. New York. I don't know what we're doing so I don't know what we'd say.”

He sees some emotion flash across Murdoc's face that narrows his eyes.

“I meant just say we're fucking, I didn't mean announce a date for the wedding.”

“I know, but my point stands.”

“I'm too sober for this,” Murdoc says sharply, fidgeting with the edge of the duvet. 2D is put in mind of something wild that's been cornered. 

“I think you're the right amount of sober.”

Murdoc stops toying with the bedding.

“I don't know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because I have no frame of reference,” Murdoc forces out, looking up to stare angrily at 2D.

“What d’you mean? You've dated people.”

Murdoc’s expression turns annoyed. 2D thinks back over the last fourteen years. No-one comes to mind. 

“My longest,” Murdoc gestures vaguely, “is with you.”

They study each other until Murdoc climbs out of bed to rummage in his suitcase for clothes. He tugs on a pair of jeans, head bowed. 

“What's happening now?”

“I'm getting dressed,” Murdoc explains sarcastically. 2D climbs off the bed to stand inches away. When Murdoc ignores him, he makes a grab for the Black Sabbath t-shirt he's holding. Murdoc looks up sharply, raising one hand in a threatened strike. He seems to catch himself with a jolt, drops the t-shirt and pulls another out of his case instead. 2D approaches him again.

D’you want to pick one? Does the Thin Lizzy not bring out my eyes?” Murdoc snaps. 

“You're going to fuck off as soon as you've got your boots on.”

“See, I told you you knew me,” Murdoc says, tone cruel but brittle. 

“You can't just fuck off any time anyone asks you a difficult question.”

“Can I not? It's worked so far.”

They stand and watch each other for a moment, Murdoc's expression wary. 2D steps closer. When Murdoc stays put, he keeps going, walking him up against one wall, a hand on Murdoc’s waist as he leans in to kiss him. Murdoc grasps his hips tight in reply. The kiss turns rougher until they're gripping each other’s shoulders, close to throttling one another. 2D grits his teeth and glares down his nose at him. The gradually building haze in his head gets harder to ignore and he feels his legs threaten to buckle. Murdoc’s expression flicks from animosity to alarm and 2D feels how Murdoc guides him to the floor. They sit leaning against the wall and 2D lets his head loll back as he takes a few deep breaths.

“What-” Murdoc starts. “Pills,” 2D offers. He's staring at the room’s cream ceiling but feels Murdoc’s gaze trained on him.

“How many pills?”

“I forget.”

“You forget?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I need to call a fucking ambulance?”

“No,” 2D’s annoyed that he needs to be reassuring when he'd rather zone out. “It's fine, I just need a minute, alright?”

“Alright,” Murdoc says dubiously. Miraculously, he keeps quiet. 2D savours it. When his head feels less heavy, he lowers it experimentally. The room feels overly warm but otherwise the fug seems to subside. 

“So are we dating?” 2D asks, mostly to change the topic. 

They turn to face each other and burst into harsh laughter. 2D leans against Murdoc’s side. Murdoc lets him. 

“I hope so,” Murdoc coos. “I've been writing our names together in my journal for years.”

It's barely a joke with Murdoc's notebooks. Murdoc seems to sense that his sarcasm has backfired and ducks his head, smirking squeamishly. 

“We're doing something,” Murdoc concedes.

“We're something alright,” 2D playfully agrees. Murdoc clearly appreciates the distraction. 

“We're a piece of work.”

“We’re bad news,” 2D adds with a melodramatic lift of his eyebrows. 

“But I don't see us stopping any time soon.” 2D makes a noise of agreement. He's got nothing else to say so he elects to straddle Murdoc's lap instead, to Murdoc’s apparent surprise. The man’s hands find and cup his backside and 2D leans down to kiss him. 

“There's a perfectly good bed over there,” Murdoc points out between kisses and 2D snorts a laugh. He gets to his feet, taking a second to steady himself before pulling Murdoc up. They climb on the bed, undressing as they go, only for 2D to encounter another snag. Murdoc’s already spotted the issue, eyes trained on his crotch. 

“Not very pleased to see me, are you? I could take offence.”

They both know it's the codeine but 2D’s in no mood to talk about his intake again. He props himself up on one elbow instead and reaches over to start pumping Murdoc’s half hard cock. 2D remembers Soho and cups his balls, causing Murdoc’s hips to cant. He kisses him roughly, smothering Murdoc’s moans until the man is left gasping silently instead. It doesn't take long for Murdoc to orgasm, eyes closed, one hand gripping 2D’s side hard enough to leave nail marks. 2D makes a point of wiping his hand clean on the Thin Lizzy t-shirt and Murdoc tries and fails to hide his amusement. 

“Lay off the pills,” Murdoc warns when he's got his breath back and 2D fights down a look of exasperation. “Or I'll get you one of those pill holders old biddies use.”

“Gonna dig out your Betterware catalogue?”

“Or I'll ring your mum.” Murdoc meets his eye, expression sharp with warning. 2D feels a hot flush of shame. 

“Don't joke about that.”

“You've not spoken to her in a while.”

“There’s nothing to report,” 2D says curtly.

“Oh, just a world tour and fucking your bassist, what's new?”

“Nothing I'll admit to.”

“Sort yourself out, Pot.” Murdoc’s tone lacks threat. “I'm the resident mess, there isn't room for two of us.”

2D makes a noise of agreement before settling back on the bed singing This Town Ain't Big Enough for Both of Us under his breath. Flush to his side, Murdoc taps the beat while 2D’s hand rests on his thigh and for while 2D doesn't miss having separate rooms. 

_ California _

“When did you last rollerskate?” 

“Er, Joe Matthews’ sister’s tenth birthday party at the leisure centre. I fell on my arse a lot,” 2D offers, grinning at Noodle. She glides over to him effortlessly, whilst he shuffles back and forth in a bid to stay upright. Noodle gives him a concerned smile. 

“Are you sure about this? We won't hear the end of it if you get injured on tour.”

“I'll be fine,” 2D insists. “It'll give them,” he gestures to the camera flashes over his shoulder, “something better to write about, won't it? “Gorillaz frontman falls arse over tit”.”

They set off along Venice Beach bike path, Noodle keeping her hand on 2D’s elbow. He feels buoyed when he realises she's deigned to let go and he hasn't instantly fallen over. He lets his mind wander as they glide along, past bodybuilders and tourists on the beach and skaters and cyclists travelling in the opposite direction. 

2D enjoys the sun on his skin. He gives a wave or smile to the occasional person who greets him with a yell of “Hey 2D!” or “Hi Gorillaz!” or “Hey Feel Good guy!”.

“Can you believe we've only got a month left?” 2D asks. “I don't know why we aren't doing more dates. We could do another tour playing Demon Days in full or the Fall or something.”

“Don't tell Jimmy, he'll have palpitations.”

“Our tours are way too short. It's like Jimmy's allergic to making money.”

“Three months is plenty of time on the road.”

“One Direction went on tour for a year,” 2D points out and Noodle shoots him a withering look that wouldn't look out of place on Murdoc. “I'm not saying anything else they do is inspirational to me but you can't fault their work ethic.”

When the number of people on the bike path thins out, Noodle changes subject. 

“I don't need defending D.”

2D knows blessedly little about Noodle's former life but he’s never doubted her capabilities. 

“Murdoc told you about that eh?”

“Yes.”

“If they want to bother me, they can just bother me. It's nothing to do with you or Russ.”

“Only because of an invalid application of our constitution.”

“I miss when Murdoc was in charge,” 2D mutters before catching himself and grimacing. “Actually, forget that, I really don't. I do miss when everyone thought the most interesting thing about me was my hair though.” 

“Pay them no mind,” Noodle says, brow knitted. 

2D wants to point out that it's not as easy as all that. The latest they're saying is his mum is enabling his addiction by filling his prescriptions and that she's not fit to practice as a nurse. He doesn't know how he's supposed to defend her from across an ocean. He's trying to think of a good way of explaining that his mum's prescription is fine, it's the ones he has with the online pharmacies that are the problem and that she doesn't even know about those. 2D imagines he'll be saved the trouble soon enough when some journalist figures it out and splashes it across the tabloids. 

He pushes the thoughts from his mind when he sees three women in tiny bikini tops and tinier shorts eyeing him up further down the beach. He skates as close as he can get and they close the distance by meeting him at the edge of the bike path. 

“Hello girls, I'm a singer in a band,” he says with a grin just the right side of obnoxious. “We're a bit obscure mind, have you heard of us?” They laugh as he shakes hands and learns names.

“D.” Noodle hovers at his side, sending the women awkward nods of greeting. “We should head back.”

“I'm making friends Noodle. I'll meet you at the arena yeah?”

“Soundcheck is at 3. Are you sure you don't want to head there now?”

“Nah, it's fine. We're just going to hang out, aren't we?” The trio offer their enthusiastic agreement. “I'll be there bang on time, I promise.”

Time lurches. He's flirting and laughing and keeping his gaze away from the lap of the sea on the shore. He's drinking in Jess' tiny triangle bikini, Megan's thighs and the beauty spot next to Nicole’s belly button while they admire him, their eyes lingering on his face and his legs; women always seem to have a thing about his height. They're making plans to go to some after party together and maybe meet up for breakfast or brunch when he looks at his watch and sees with a jolt of panic that it's already six. He makes his excuses, saves their numbers in his phone and skates back down the bike path fast enough that he threatens to fall arse over tit after all. He practically throws the overdue roller skates on the rental shack counter and jumps in a taxi, firing off texts as he goes. 

He arrives at seven to find soundcheck long finished and the doors about to open for the support act. He’s sweaty and sandy and heads straight for his dressing room to grab a towel for a shower. Murdoc is sat inside.

“It says 2D on the door,” 2D says gruffly, locating a towel and heading back out. Murdoc stalks after him. 

“You lost your phone? Jimmy's been calling you.”

“No I was just busy.”

“Busy having a fourway?”

“Not quite,” he says, more for the way it makes Murdoc’s eyes spark with jealousy than anything. “We hung out instead.”

“We came close this close to cancelling. I told them not to, that you'd show,” 2D keeps striding down the hall. “D’you care?”

A wave of guilt washes over him and he stops to stare at Murdoc.

“I just lost track of time. Of course I care. We’re going ahead aren't we?”

“Yes, and if it sounds like shit that's your fault. One of the roadies sound checked your synths and Noodle did your vocals. Do it again and I'll just hire the roadie, he did an alright job.”

They're in the shower room and 2D is already stripping off. The conversation seems more ridiculous when 2D's stood there naked while Murdoc glares at him. 

“D’you want a quickie in the shower?” 2D offers as a distraction. 

“Yes,” Murdoc says through gritted teeth. “But we don't have time. We've got ninety minutes before we go on.”

“That's ages,” 2D dismisses. “You like being right more than you like sex?”

“It's a close call.” Murdoc walks up to him and 2D grabs him roughly about the waist. The action drags a needy noise out of Murdoc that goes right to 2D’s crotch. He gets hard as he presses against Murdoc’s clothed thigh. The man reluctantly pulls away to undress and 2D remembers the shower room door and goes to lock it. When he's turned back to Murdoc the man’s already walking behind the glass partition of the large walk-in shower and turning the shower on. 

“Condom?” he calls back to 2D. 

“Not got any."

“Well done genius.”

2D can’t remember seeing Murdoc with his hair so wet. It flops into his eyes even more than normal and he's eventually forced to brush his fringe back off his face. 2D walks into the cubicle, already masturbating. He sees how Murdoc gets harder just watching him. 

“How can I resist now you've got your sexiest features on show,” 2D jokes, nodding to Murdoc’s eyebrows. The man waggles them for good measure.

“Had to find my sexiest feature eventually, didn't we?” He leans against one wall, out of the direct spray of the shower head. “Ninety minutes. More like eighty now. And you need a shave, scruff.”

“Maybe I'm growing a beard,” 2D says, giving his jaw a rub with his thumb. 

“Twinks don't have beards. Well, not those kind of beards,” Murdoc says, clearly trying to press his buttons. 2D crowds him against the wall.

“So what are we doing if I can't fuck you?” he asks bluntly. Murdoc gives a lecherous smirk.

“Shouldn't be surprised you lack sexual creativity when you've got ten kids.” It's obvious Murdoc wants to get a rise out of him but 2D falls for it anyway, shoving him against the slick tiles and grinding against him. Murdoc grabs at his backside, burying his face in his neck and biting and sucking at the skin. As 2D’s thrusts threaten to get faster, Murdoc pushes him away and turns around, arms spreads against the wall. He looks over his shoulder expectantly. From the slight spread of his legs, 2D can guess what Murdoc’s intending but he's still annoyed enough to draw things out. 

“I thought we weren't fucking,” 2D mutters though he's already positioning himself behind Murdoc and spreading his cheeks, causing him to moan. Water slides down 2D’s back, drips off his nose. “You'll have to tell me what to do because I lack sexual creativity.”

Murdoc is clearly focused on remaining upright, body held unnaturally still.

“Well?” 2D gives Murdoc’s backside a slap, hard enough that the skin fleetingly turns pink. Murdoc groans and 2D’s cock gives a visible twitch. 

“Put your cock,” Murdoc’s clearly embarrassed by his own demands. 

“Say it or you don't get it.”

“Put your cock between my buttocks-”

2D can't help chuckling. 

“That's very scientific.”

“Fuck off,” Murdoc say with a laugh. “Just put your cock there and fuck me.”

“Please.”

“We've got an hour before we go on. I'll tear it off if you don't get a move o-” 2D doesn't let him finish the threat. He leans in against Murdoc, one hand against the cubicle wall as he uses the other to press his cock between Murdoc’s cheeks. He moves experimentally, carefully rolling his hips so as not to dislodge himself. It's a surprising amount of effort given the height difference, with Murdoc almost on the balls of his feet and 2D's legs slightly bent, but the moan it draws out of Murdoc is enough to make 2D’s hips snap forward. 

The air in the shower gets hotter and 2D’s heart beats faster with a combination of lust and panic. He looks to one side and can't see out of the cubicle’s glass partition, it's so foggy.

He can't see the beach beyond the windows, the fog is so dense. He's going to die here.

He bites the inside of his mouth hard enough to break the skin and bring himself back to Murdoc's desperate noises. He's pretty much just grinding against the small of Murdoc’s back but Murdoc is still moaning and jerking off in a vague approximation of the rhythm 2D’s setting. 2D comes against his back and buttocks and the shower quickly whisks it away, along with Murdoc’s release against the cubicle wall. Murdoc turns around, hair completely dishevelled, face slack with orgasm. He seems to rouse when he sees 2D's expression.

“You alright?” he slurs. 

“Yeah,” 2D lies. 

“You look distracted.”

“We go on in, what, an hour?” he offers and they hastily scrub themselves, 2D quickly shampooing and rinsing his hair. Murdoc rubs himself down with the towel first while 2D looks at his reflection in the steamed up mirror, gaze unfocused as he avoids its eyes. 

They go onstage with towel dried hair and 2D still sporting stubble. The synth microphones sound ever so slightly off and 2D knows it drives Murdoc mad too. 

*

Murdoc wakes up the next afternoon to find 2D gone for the day. He's toying with going for a walk and a fag when there's a knock at the door. 

“Daft twat, stop losing your key,” Murdoc grouses, yanking it open. Russel is stood there, looking far too awake for Murdoc’s liking. He eyes Murdoc, wearing nothing but pants, with obvious disapproval.

“Oh, it's you.”

“Yeah, it's me,” Russel agrees coolly. “We need to talk. Get dressed and meet me downstairs in the restaurant in ten.”

There's barely any time to argue, since Russel heads back down the corridor as soon as he's finished speaking. Murdoc trudges down to the restaurant and finds Russel sat in one corner with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Murdoc takes the chair opposite. Russel wastes no time. 

“Fix this or I quit.”

For all their disagreements over the years, which have been extensive, extended and on every subject under the sun, Russel has never threatened to quit. Murdoc feels deflated. He sits back in his chair with a sigh, studying Russel wearily. 

“And I don't mean just don't talk about what you're doing, because we both know that's not working. D isn't right.”

“I know.”

“One more thing and I quit. One more thing and I don't know if there's even gonna be a band left for me to quit. I told you this before, in Berlin.”

“I know.”

“And you just ran away. This is your band, isn't it? You've gotta fix this Murdoc.”

“Yeah,” Murdoc can't remember the last time he said so little. 

“I thought I'd meet with more resistance,” Russel admits. Murdoc gives a tired shake of his head.

“You're a self righteous knob but you're smart Russ, I've never denied that,” Murdoc mutters.

“So do we have a deal? One more thing happens-”

“And I fix it. How do I do that exactly?”

“I don't know. We take a break?”

Murdoc wants to slam his fist against the table. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead. 

“Deal.”

It's less than a week before Murdoc has to put his money where his mouth is. Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach ends and a dishevelled 2D takes the microphone from its stand, staggers to the front of the stage and yells “Hello Seattle!” at twenty thousand screaming fans in Vancouver. They make it through the mediocre show and Murdoc meets Russel’s eye long enough to nod. He finds Jimmy backstage and the man’s expression is a mirror of his own. 

“I need a word,” Murdoc says. Jimmy follows him into his dressing room, locking the door behind them. 

*

2D’s unease about the journey to Hong Kong had begun when Jimmy announced that, what with the length of the flight, the band would charter a jet. His unease only increases when they’re onboard and he sees how immaculate it is. The large cabin contains a handful of plush leather recliners and an almost wall length grey sofa facing a flat screen TV. 2D doesn't remember take off, just the click of his seat belt then the enveloping fug of his tablets kicking in. Once they've reached altitude, he gets up to investigate on leaden legs, opening the door to the bedroom at the end of the cabin and taking in the crisp linen on the king size bed and the spotless en suite.

“Why isn't Jimmy here?” he asks as he drops into one chair, studying the controls before finding the right button to make it recline. 

“He went ahead to finalise arrangements for the Australian gigs.” Murdoc looks him squarely in the eye as he speaks and 2D knows it's a lie from years of experience. 

“This must have cost a fortune.”

“Treating us for being on our best behaviour,” Murdoc offers sarcastically. 

“I could get used to this,” Russel says, looking up from his book. 2D suppresses the urge to frown. Russel’s smiles are hard won, small and unshowy, a complete contrast to the cheery grin he's shooting 2D now. 

“Hey, D, do you want to watch a movie?” Noodle asks some time later. 2D’s feeling over warm against the leather of the recliner so he readily joins Noodle on the sofa. They flick through the expansive catalogue before settling on a favourite of 2D’s, Meantime. Russel sticks to reading and Murdoc mutters something about having enough lived experience of Thatcher to make rewatching Meantime redundant. 

2D watches the film and it feels more like he's watching himself watch it. He loves Meantime, he reminds himself, as he stares blankly at the screen. He loves it but he feels like an alien, watching it from outer space.

And he's still too warm. 

He's waiting for his salad to arrive at noon like clockwork. 

He's waiting for the island to sink. 

They're stuck. They're stuck and he's going to die here. 

2D digs his nails into his thigh until he's back. He takes out his phone. It's in flight mode but Noodle watches him keenly and her interest only spurs him on. He stares at the Maps icon, swallowing against the dryness in his throat before opening the app and looking at the little dot that is him. It's over the Midwest. He feels hotter as terror takes hold of him, gripping his temples and throat. 

“Where are we going?” he asks hoarsely. The others tense in unison. They look at Murdoc who clearly weighs his options before answering. 

“London.”

2D feels vindicated and sick in rapid succession. He stands up from the sofa and puts more space between himself and the rest of the band. 

“What about Hong Kong? Australia?” 

Murdoc’s expression is weary. 

“We've cancelled the rest of the tour.”

“No we haven't, when did we do that?” 2D looks between them, stunned that he's right. They return his look sadly. 

“Constitution, simple majority,” Murdoc rattles off without enthusiasm.

2D feels his fear warp into anger. He clenches his hands at his sides.

“This is bollocks. Tell them to turn the plane around and go back to Vancouver.”

“It's already decided.”

“Then why did no-one check with me?” 2D snarls, darting looks between them. “I'm only the fucking frontman. Why did no-one fucking check with me?” He can barely catch his breath when he remembers Stylo. It's lies on top of lies on top of lies again and again and again. 

“God you're doing it again,” he croaks. 

“Doing what?”

“Don't take me back to the beach,” he chokes out but he's already grabbing his Boston bag and scrabbling for the bedroom. He slams the door, locks it and climbs on the bed, watching the door with wide eyes. It doesn't take long for fists, Murdoc's, to start thudding against it.

“Stu, open the door,” he barks. 

“Turn the plane around,” 2D insists. “Does Jimmy know you're doing this?”

“Yes. Open it.”

2D can't believe Jimmy thought this was a good idea. He can't believe this was their solution. He pulls his iPad out of his bag with shaking hands. 

“If we don't finish the tour,” 2D warns as he starts up GarageBand, “I'll write a solo album and tour that instead.”

The fists slam the door harder. 

“Fuck off are you going to write a solo album! You're going to open this fucking door and stop being a fucking cunt!” Murdoc roars. 2D feels himself shaking with rage. He seethes at the door as it rattles in its frame.

“I am,” he insists, “and every fucking song is gonna have fucking cowbell!”

“I'm gonna bash your fucking head in with that fucking iPad as soon as you open this door!”

“Then why would I fucking open it, you fucking psycho?” 2D yells back. He can faintly hear Noodle talking to someone in a reassuring tone, one of the stewards perhaps. The ramming of the door stops as Murdoc starts having a heated conversation with Russel instead. 2D catches snatches: Russel repeating the words Plastic Beach and Murdoc barking that he “doesn't have time for this” when 2D is “holding himself hostage”. 2D plays around with a melody he's been working on but gives up when his hands won't stop trembling. He knows he needs to convince them he's alright, he just got his cities confused and missed a couple of cues. He drops the iPad on the covers and forces himself off the bed to open the door. Everyone turns to look at him. He takes a slow breath and speaks as calmly as he can. 

“I'm fine. I just need to keep going.” 

“You absolutely don't,” Murdoc snaps, standing practically toe to toe with Russel following their argument. 

“I do. I have to,” 2D shoots them a hopeful, wavering smile. “Please can we finish the tour?”

Murdoc’s expression looks ready to splinter, jaw working hard. 

“We’ve got to finish the tour. We've only got until New Year's and then I've got to come up with something else to do.”

“Stu, it's already cancelled.”

2D does his best not to panic as he searches for something else to say. 

“But I want to keep touring and no-one even asked me.”

It feels like a levee is breaking inside him. 2D wonders if this is how Murdoc had felt on the beach. He starts crying as he leans against the doorframe. Everyone watches. He tries to catch his breath.

“I want to finish the tour, I'm fine,” he garbles. 

“Oh, sure, I was just thinking how fine you seem-” Murdoc starts. 2D slams his fist against the doorframe. 

“Could you try not being a sarcastic cunt for a second?!” he bellows, barely coherent. 

“No, actually, I can't.” Murdoc’s words catch. “We're not going back on tour. Stuart, you're crying your eyes out and shaking, for god's sake.”

2D hides his face in his hand but it does nothing to disguise his tremors. 

“What the hell is wrong?” Murdoc asks, sounding desperate. 

“I need to keep busy,” 2D manages to get out. “I can't stop.”

“Why can't you stop?” Murdoc asks and 2D knows he already knows from the desolate expression on his face.

“Because if I stop I see it. And I smell it and.” 2D gasps for breath and presses his palms against his forehead, fingers gripping his scalp. Noodle is openly crying and Murdoc shoots her a pained look before staring hard at 2D instead. 

“So what's your plan?” Murdoc asks. “Never stop?”

“Yeah. I'm just going to keep going until it goes away.”

“Speaking from experience, I can promise you that won't work,” Murdoc says. He looks old and lost to 2D. He looks like no help at all. Russel moves towards him and 2D steps back into the bedroom and locks the door again. Murdoc doesn't ram it and the silence is deafening. 

*

A few hours later the door cricks open and 2D quietly asks for Noodle and Russel. Murdoc doesn't bother arguing for admission, sitting silently in the recliner nearest the bedroom and staring into middle distance. He hears sobs, terse exchanges and the occasional peal of sad laughter. 

Noodle and Russel reemerge hours later. He darts a glance at their exhausted looking faces before looking back at his lap. To their credit, neither attempts to engage him, save that Noodle momentarily places her hand on his shoulder as she passes. Murdoc feels something threaten to snap within him and grips the chair’s armrests hard. 

The lock clicks again at some twilight hour that Murdoc’s inner thermostat tells him is early morning. He looks up to see the door open wide enough for someone to slip inside. 2D stares out at him, his expression softer and resigned. He steps to one side in silent invitation and Murdoc heads in wearily. 

2D locks the door and lies down on the bed. Murdoc joins him. They study the spotlights set into the ceiling until 2D starts to shake with sobs again, covering his face with his hands. Murdoc’s hands instinctively clench and he's tempted to shake 2D and demand that he stop. He lies a while longer, shoulders tensed, listening to him cry. Then, Murdoc reaches out uneasily and pulls one of 2D’s hands away to grasp it. 2D looks at him, face ugly with tears, nose running and eyes puffy. He shuffles closer and Murdoc works his arm under his shoulders instead as 2D rests his face against his neck. Murdoc holds him, staring hard at the ceiling, jaw set. 

“I said I wasn't leaving.” It takes Murdoc a moment to translate the choked words. 

“What? When?” 

“Back in Seattle.”

Murdoc casts around for an explanation and hits on the Demon Days tour. He's not sure he remembers what 2D’s referring to or if he's just imagining that he does.

“You're not leaving. You're just having a break.”

“I'd rather keep going.” 2D sounds tired of his own argument.

“You're not well. There's no band if you're not all there.”

“I've never been all there,” 2D mutters. Murdoc chuckles weakly. 

“Oi, you're stealing my best material.”

2D’s laugh quickly fractures into sobs.

“I want to turn it off.”

“I know.”

“I want...”

Normality. A time machine. There were a few things Murdoc could think of. 

“I want to be alright with it.”

“I'm not sure you should want that.” They're silent for a time before Murdoc says, “I'm not equipped for this.”

“I know.”

“What should I do?” he asks softly. 

“Just stay.”

"Alright.” 

2D rearranges himself so his face is resting against Murdoc’s chest, one leg crooked and resting on top of Murdoc’s while his hand loosely holds Murdoc’s upper arm, thumb stroking. It's some time before Murdoc can bring himself to speak again. 

“I remember this thing you said once, way back when.” The words sound torn out of him. 2D props himself up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his hand roughly over his sodden face before sending Murdoc an interested look. 

“It was Noodle’s honorary birthday. When we went to Little Chef.”

2D gives him a watery smile. “Don't think I've been to a Little Chef since.”

“Has anyone?”

“What'd I say?”

Murdoc makes a point of pausing like he's trying to remember. 

“That it'd be nice if I was nice. That forever was a long time to be cruel.”

2D watches him and Murdoc returns the look uncomfortably. 

“You’re not remembering at all, are you?” 

2D shakes his head apologetically.

“I had a lot of Stella that night.”

“I think about it sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“I,” Murdoc falters, swallowing hard. “I just, I think about it.”

It sets 2D off crying again and Murdoc feels panic and anger flare in his chest. 

“Sorry,” 2D murmurs. “I'm sorry.”

“Stop being ridiculous. I'm the twat who thought lying about where you were fucking flying was a good idea for christ sake.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” 

2D lays back against Murdoc's chest only to lift his head with a look of surprise. 

“Your heart’s going ten to the dozen.”

“But I’ve stayed,” Murdoc says, tone wavering. “Like you said to.”

“Thank you.”

They spend the rest of the flight in silence. Murdoc passes time stealing glances down at 2D and sees how lost in thought he is, brow drawn, face occasionally screwed up in a bid to keep from sobbing. 

They land on a private runway at Gatwick where four cars are waiting at the gate. They alight and find Jimmy standing by the cars, looking solemn in the late morning sunlight. He approaches Murdoc first, pulling him aside in a quick, whispered conversation. 

“How did he take it?”

Murdoc shakes his head tiredly.

“We need to get him home.”

Jimmy nods, gesturing to one car. “One of us needs to go with him. We can't send him off alone.”

“Who's going?” 

“I don't know, who do you think?”

They shoot 2D a sidelong look and it's clear he knows they're talking about him from the hunch of his shoulders. 

“Just ask him, he's a grown man,” Murdoc says.

Jimmy heads over to 2D and the pair speak quietly, 2D pausing every so often to look around, shake his head or rub a hand over his face. Murdoc stands near Noodle and Russel, feeling incapable of talking to either of them. It's redundant since they're all just watching 2D. 

“Alright guys,” Jimmy says, trotting over to them, tone pointedly upbeat. “I'm gonna go to Crawley with D. I'll sort out press statements too so we're all just gonna focus on taking a break. Does that sound good?”

The attempt at optimism is enough to make Murdoc's cheek twitch. He regrets not hiring some moody Mancunian as their manager. 

They linger by the cars until Noodle strides over to 2D and wraps him in a hug. He crumples against her, seeming to shrink a foot in height. The noise it drags out of him is animalistic, wounded and enough to make Murdoc want to cover his ears. He trains his eyes on the tarmac, patting down his jacket for his cigarettes only to realise his lighter is missing. He swears under his breath. Russel joins Noodle and 2D, pulling 2D into a tight hug of his own. 

Murdoc cuts his losses and walks to the nearest car, his legs feeling weak. He drops onto the backseat, spots the tinted privacy screen between the front and back of the car and cups his face in one hand, his breathing ragged to his ear. He jumps at the knock on the opposite window, unable to say or do anything before the door opens. 2D peers inside, face wan. He climbs in and sits with his hands folded in his lap. 

“Am I in the wrong car?” Murdoc forces himself to ask. 

“No, I'll go in a minute.” 2D’s voice is husky from crying. “I just wanted to say.”

Murdoc studies his reflection in the privacy screen and how old it looks, the hollows of his face deeper and the bags under his eyes darker than he remembered. He darts a sidelong look at 2D. It isn't returned. 2D stares at his own reflection in the screen, expression resigned. 

“I need to know who I am without you,” 2D says to his reflection. “And I think you should know who you are without me.”

Murdoc couldn't disagree more. He doesn't say anything. 2D reaches across the middle seat to rest his hand on Murdoc's leg. Murdoc places his hand on top and grips 2D’s hand tight for a second before 2D pulls away and gets out of the car. 

Murdoc sees his reflection trembling from lack of sleep and the cold air conditioning. He closes his eyes, covering them with one hand as his head drops back against the headrest. 

He hears the telltale whirr of the privacy screen lowering. The driver quietly asks where he wants to go.

“I don't know,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a personalised apology/to chat about these total messes, pop by my tumblr (elapsed-spiral).
> 
> P.S. I'm reserving the right to do a Fleetwood Mac (aka Go My Own Way) if the Phase 5 plot continues to be ridiculous. This may mean tweaking past chapters or just deviating from canon going forward.


	15. 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Diary of Stuart Harold Pot (age 34 3/4)"
> 
> Featuring my two favourite boys (spoiler alert: not Murdoc n Stu), Murdoc being Debbie Harry, platonic male friendship in abundance and an explanation of the Sleeping Powder dance routine.
> 
> Warnings: this chapter is so long, sorry about that. Slightly detailed description of vomit, illegal activities and the usual warning for unhealthy people doing mentally and physically unhealthy things to themselves and each other. Unbetaed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited for this chapter guys. It's wall to wall music and includes Extra Special Guests. Enjoy!

 

_[Hello_

_The diary of Stuart Harold ~~Tuss~~ pot (age 34 3/4)]_

_*_

“I want you to hurt me.”

She lowers the paddle, heels clacking on the tiled floor as She comes to stand in front of him. He's kneeling so he tilts his head to look beyond Her form fitting black trousers and bodice to Her blood red lips and matching hair. She scowls.

“I don't care what you want, you piece of shit,” She says, Her gravelly Eastern European accent adding to the disdain in Her words.

He closes his eyes, savouring it. She lifts one heeled foot and he preemptively leans forward, giving Her access to his back. The stiletto digs into the flesh between his shoulder blades. He's left doubled over, staring cross eyed at his own knees.

“What are you?” She asks.

“I'm a piece of shit, Mistress,” he gasps out. “I'm a piece of shit, I'm a piece of shit, I'm a-” he only stops when She yanks him up by his hair. He looks up at Her, sees the hand before it strikes his face. His head snaps to the side and he focuses on how his skin burns. He's going to look like nothing on earth by the time She's done, he thinks. He's going to look like shit.

He is a piece of shit.

“No-one cares what you have to say, scum,” She hisses. He doesn't nod. He waits for permission.

“Does anyone care what you have to say?”

“No Mistress.”

“Why?"

“Because I'm scum Mistress.”

The most disturbing part comes after they're finished and he's heading for the door. She gives him a brief pat on the back and kindly asks if he knows how to get back to Hammersmith. Murdoc feels the start of various bruises under Her touch. He says he's fine.

“Will you be back?” She asks.

“When’re you free?” He asks. They pencil him in for Sunday.

Getting back into central London from Croydon is torture in itself. His hand had been forced since all the Mistresses he'd approached in Zones 1 to 4 had expressed concerns that he was using BDSM as a replacement for therapy. Murdoc thought they were nosy sods who were turning down perfectly good money. Luckily, Madam Flesch was from the former USSR and seemed unfazed. Living under a dictatorship probably put things in perspective.

Murdoc gingerly lowers himself onto a seat on a Victoria bound train and fishes his phone out of his jacket to find he's got no messages, no missed calls, no new notifications. He googles the nearest motorhome dealerships.

*

_[I don't know what to write._

_Bye.]_

*

Stuart wakes up to Pamela Anderson.

He gives her a fond smile and she looks back at him with undisputedly the best tits he's ever seen. He considers having a wank but decides against it since it's far too similar to his teenage routine. Staying in his museum quality childhood bedroom is bad enough.

He gets out of bed with a stretch and settles on his yoga mat to meditate. He focuses on his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He's visualising a ball of healing yellow light expanding outward from the centre of his chest. He's nodding off. His head snaps up and Joe Strummer gives him a disapproving look from his Clash poster.

He sidles downstairs in his pyjamas to find his mum and dad at the kitchen table. He gives them a yawn of greeting as he locates and pours out some Cheerios, gently batting away his mum’s attempts at doing it for him. He sits to the table with his cereal and pill holder and takes this morning’s dose. He tries not to frown as his first headache of the day settles heavily above his eyebrows, slowing his thoughts down to a crawl.

“How’re you this morning Stu?” his dad asks over his mug of tea.

“Fine thanks,” he smiles blandly. “Got my appointment this afternoon.”

David and Rachel both nod awkwardly. As a family they've never been big on uncomfortable subjects so they've come to a silent agreement that it's best to talk about his therapy sessions like he's going for countless dental check ups.

“I was thinking of popping in the Oak beforehand.” He catches his parents passing looks over the top of his head like he isn't a middle aged man. “I can't stay inside forever. It's been months, no-one’s camping outside anymore. I'm chip paper now.”

“Okay darling,” Rachel says with forced enthusiasm. “Do you want a lift?”

“Nah, thanks. I'll get the bus.” Everyone looks subtly relieved at the prospect of being out of each other’s hair. He borrows some change from David and gets the next bus, sitting near the back with aviators and a beanie pulled down to his eyebrows. He even puts on the Best of ABC to complete the nostalgia trip. He thanks the bus driver and walks down the high street to the Royal Oak. He lingers by the door for a moment, considering just ducking in a coffee shop before he takes a deep breath in and pushes the door open.

He's clearly not as incognito as he'd imagined because the landlord, all 200 burly pounds of him wearing a one size too small black short sleeve shirt and earpiece, instantly jabs a finger at him from behind the bar.

“Oi! You dare show your face in here when I've been texting you for a year or more, declaring my underlying love for you and you've done naff all about it? You monster!”

A couple of day drinkers look up in brief, bleary eyed interest. Stuart gives a relieved laugh, shedding the beanie. Mike walks out from behind the bar and gives him a ribcage rattling clap on the back. Stuart’s oddly comforted to see Mike’s still got the same short back and sides and goatee he's had since sixth form. Mike looks him over before fondly declaring “you look like fried shite mate.”

“I feel like fried shite.”

“What d'you want?” Mike jabs over his shoulder at the beer taps.

“Oh, er, lemonade please.” At the quirk of Mike's eyebrow Stuart explains, “I'm not supposed to drink with my medication.”

“Stu, are you having a giggle? What've you been doing for the last twenty years?”

“I'm drying out.”

“Right.” Mike goes behind the bar and takes a can of San Pelligrino out of the fridge instead of giving him a lemonade from the bar hose. If that isn't love, Stuart doesn't know what is. Mike says something to one of the bar staff then gestures he and Stuart go and sit in a booth in the back of the pub. He puts the ice and slice down on the table, pouring some San Pelligrino out for Stuart before fixing him with an interested look.

“Took you long enough to come say hello.”

Stuart grimaces at the truth of it. “I'm sorry. How's your dad?”

Mike’s expression falters before he offers a sad smile. “He's alright. He's out of the hospital now, got most of the feeling back but he's still weak and slurring. You know how stubborn he is, it just frustrates him, having to rely on mum so much.”

Stuart nods. Mike had texted to tell him about the stroke while he was on tour. He hadn't responded. He still hadn't responded when he'd come home. Stuart’s added it to his list of failures, along with missing Mike's wedding and the christenings of Mike's girls.

“I haven't been a very good friend,” he says, playing with his straw. “Sorry.”

“Don't be like that. So, c’mon, how is your undying love for me?”

Stuart’s mouth quirks as he drinks.

“Eating me alive.” Mike chuckles at that. “But I'll cope. How's the Oak?”

“Fine. The powers that be have us serving Mexican on Thursday nights.”

“Any good?" 

“Terrible, it'll never last. Curry night is enough of a stretch for this lot.”

Stuart can feel the occasional patron glancing over at them. “Do people still talk about me ‘round here?” he asks. Mike gives him an annoyed if amused look.

“Can you hear yourself? I remember when you were just glad girls thought your hair looked cool.”

“But do they?”

“Sometimes.”

“What d'they say?”

“Album before last, people were talking about you in the same breath as The Cure. Lad done good. Now,” Mike grimaces.

“Bad?”

“Well there's all the gossip and then there's the music.”

“What about the music?” 2D asks defensively.

“Well, it's kind of poncy isn't it?”

“Right.”

Mike gives him a despairing look. “Don't ask if you don't wanna know Stu." Mike shoots his staff a glance. “I better get back to it. You should come ‘round for dinner with the missus and the kids tonight.”

“I don't want to impose.”

“It's not imposing if I offered. Come ‘round at seven. Want a lift?”

“Nah, just gimme the address.”

Stuart arrives bang on time and Mike’s already stood in the doorway of the new build semi-detached house. It looks a lot like the houses he and Mike grew up in and is only a few streets down.

Laura appears at Mike’s side, less slender than he remembers but as immaculate as ever, hair styled in a smooth platinum bob.

“Alright Laura.” Stuart hands her the bunch of sunflowers he's bought and gives her a quick hug. “Good to see you.”

“You too Stu.” Laura wags the flowers at Mike. “This is why he gets the ladies."

“Too bad you're stuck with me,” Mike grins as Laura shakes her head playfully. He leads Stuart inside and briefly points out the living room, kitchen, dining room. It's nicely decorated with flocked wallpaper and plenty of family photographs in silver frames.

“It's a lovely house.”

“Thanks, we've been here-” Mike looks to Laura for assistance.

“God, must be a decade.”

“Yeah we might move soon, it's a bit cramped now the girls are getting bigger. Speaking of,” Mike leans over the bannister to call. “Girls, dinner. Uncle Stu’s here.”

Sophie and Ellie thud downstairs, both of them surprisingly tall. Stuart’s struggling to remember their ages but knows Mike texted about Sophie, the eldest, being born while they were recording the Feel Good Inc video. Stuart had been up to his eyeballs in groupies at the time (before, during and after filming). He'd responded a month later.

“Alright girls,” Stuart smiles. “You're getting big.”

They both look intently at his hair and eyes. Ellie murmurs something in Sophie's ear and they share a meaningful look before Sophie pipes up. 

“Dad says you’re in a band.”

“Yeah, that's right. I'm in Gorillaz.”

They share another look before Sophie makes a noise of recollection. “Oh yeah, that's old people music.”

Mike snorts a laugh. “I didn't even pay her to say that. C’mon everyone, dining room, it's nearly ready.”

They all chat over the pasta Laura’s made. Sophie explains that she's starting big school after the summer holidays and she's a bit nervous but also excited. Ellie is sad Sophie will be going to another school but she's also happy to show off her latest missing tooth, one near the front at the bottom. She got a pound from the tooth fairy but Liam at school got two.

Stuart feels a twist of shame at how everything is new information, including Laura saying that she's thinking of going back to work soon or maybe even going back to college to do a childcare course. Mike guides the conversation just like he had at school, sensing when Ellie's getting frustrated at her sister talking over her and knowing Stuart wants to avoid talking about himself and encouraging Laura to tell them all about her day instead.

People at school had sometimes thought Stuart and Mike were cousins. They both have the same snubbed nose and weak chins. Sophie and Ellie have them too and it makes Stuart oddly sad. Stuart thinks about his own kids. He's never even seen photos of them. He's been sent them and there's been a few in newspaper articles but he's always refused to look at them. The oldest one, a boy, is eight. He lets himself wonder if they have his nose and blinks hard as he finishes his glass of water.

They have profiteroles for dessert and Stuart sees how Ellie is eyeing his last one. Between them, they negotiate with Laura, who rolls her eyes and agrees she can have it.

“Your milk teeth are a freebie Ellie,” Laura warns. “But you've got to look after the next lot.”

“Yeah or you'll look like Stu,” Mike grins.

Ellie shoots Stuart a look of shock. “Did you eat too many sweets?”

“Yeah, listen to your mum,” Stuart agrees to a pleased grin from Laura.

They finish up and the girls head upstairs to get ready for bed, giving Stuart quick hugs before they tear up the stairs. Laura and Mike load the dishwasher while Stuart hovers awkwardly, wondering if he should take off.

“This was nice, thank you.”

“You've only said ten times,” Mike laughs good naturedly.

“Because Rachel and David raised him right,” Laura points out.

“I'll be sure to let David know next time he's down the Oak.” Mike goes into the cupboard under the stairs, emerging with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Laura sighs at the sight of them. “Shall we go and admire the garden Stu?”

Mike and Stuart walk through the living room and out the patio door, Mike stage whispering, “I'm supposed to have quit but vaping's not the same is it?”

They sit down in two padded wicker chairs on the patio and light up. Mike catches Stuart up on various old classmates; how Sam’s working as security at Gatwick now, how Nick emigrated to Australia. They eventually fall into silence. Mike watches him for a moment and Stuart gives him a smile.

“So why're you really back home?” Mike asks softly.

Stuart takes a deep drag on his cigarette before answering. “I wasn't well.” 

The corners of Mike’s eyes crease in sympathy. “The papers were right then?”

“Some of it. Not the bit about my crush on you.”

“I know you numpty. They said you were delusional.”

“I dunno,” Stuart taps his cigarette against the ashtray on the table between them. “Perhaps. Too much codeine.”

“Bet your mum’s glad you're back home.”

“Yeah, she likes keeping an eye on me.”

“She tried setting you up with anyone yet? Amy's back on the market.”

Stuart starts at that. “She's married to Mark isn't she?”

“No, they got divorced. He had an affair.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Idiot. Don't they have kids?”

“Just one.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Was the stuff about Murdoc true?” It's strange hearing the name leave Mike’s mouth. It's like the two spheres of Stuart’s life are crashing into one another.

“Most of it.” For once, Stuart can't read Mike’s expression, save that he's thinking.

“What's the appeal?” Mike has never shied away from saying what's on his mind. “If it's a sex thing just say it's a sex thing and we'll move on.”

Stuart considers the garden in the failing light before shrugging. “I can't explain.”

“To me or yourself?”

“Both.”

“I remember reading some interview about him ages ago, with his dad I think. He sounds like a bit of a wreck. How many times has he been to jail?”

“Dunno. A few.”

“And he does speed.”

“Did. Don't think he does it now. Or not as much.”

“You don't sound sure of a lot.”

“No, but, I know him.” Stuart surprises himself with his words but it's right. “I don't know everything about him but I know him. Does that make sense?"

“Not really. You know Leo’s gone gay don't you?”

That surprises Stuart. Leo had always been the sensible one in their group of friends, the one who made sure to leave their Friday lunchtime Pizza Hut buffets in sixth form in good time for their afternoon classes. The rest of them had always rolled in late and sleepy from all the carbs. Leo would even splash out on the salad bar, like a middle aged man in the body of a gangly seventeen year old. They'd playfully given him grief about that stuff sometimes but Leo had always shrugged it off. Stuart had admired that about him.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He's single.”

Stuart shoots Mike a look. “Are you actually trying to set me up with Leo? What about Amy?”

“Take your pick,” Mike shrugs. “I'm married, I've got to live vicariously through you. And you know what they say about getting over someone.” Stuart meets his gaze reluctantly, fighting down a smile when he sees the exaggeratedly suave look on Mike's face, the one that had worked on all the girls back in the day and Stuart had spent the last few decades trying to replicate. “Get under someone else Stu.”

*

Murdoc drives up to the Welcome to Stoke-on-Trent sign on Sandon Road in the middle of the night. He pulls up on the verge and sits staring at it, head against the headrest. They've replaced the old ones but he remembers how it had looked from behind, the plain back, the metal poles holding it up, the screws holding it all together. He remembers how it had felt like there was a force field around it, repelling him back to Longton if he dared stray beyond it. The roads are dead so he does an illegal U-turn and watches as the sign shrinks in his rear view mirror, then disappears as the road bends. He feels lighter.

He keeps driving, only stopping to refuel the diesel hungry winnebago. By dawn he's in the outskirts of Sheffield though he can't remember making a conscious decision to visit. He uses Maps to find Park Hill. He's unsurprised to see how gentrified the tower blocks are now, full of desirable, brightly coloured and clean apartments for professionals. He sits on the grassy slope and looks down at the jewellery box of twinkling yellow street lights, drinking vodka to keep warm.

When the first people begin venturing out of the blocks in their workwear, he gets back in the winnebago and drives into town, laughing at the plastic “Welcome to Sheffield” sign he passes, screwed onto the ragged brick wall of a mostly demolished building. Feeling suitably welcomed, he follows the road around until he spots a Waitrose and parks across five parking bays.

His instincts lead him to the aisle with the tin foil, ready to line a shopping bag so the sensors don't go off when he walks out without paying. He scans the shelves until he spots the cheapest roll of foil and stands there holding it.

And then he remembers who he is. Then he remembers what his bank balance is.

He starts laughing. He laughs and laughs, still holding the foil. A pinafored shop worker passes the aisle and pauses to give him an alarmed look before scuttling away. Murdoc has to wipe tears away on the back of his hand.

He goes and grabs a trolley and then, still chuckling to himself occasionally, wanders the aisles. He gets everything: Garibaldi biscuits, Monster Munch, Chipsticks, Salt ‘n’ Shake, Doritos, Dandelion and Burdock, pork pies, scotch eggs, chicken satay skewers, curry ready meals, Pot Noodles, bagels, whiskey, Strongbow, cigarettes, Beats headphones and the complete box set of The Wire. There's only a couple of tills open so he joins a queue and tries to keep from audibly laughing again. It's obvious no-one recognises him but the leather jacket, boots and cross clearly confuse and concern the usual crowd. He takes the trolley back to the winnebago to unload, realises The Wire box set is Blu Ray and goes back into Waitrose to buy the first Blu Ray player he spots. After that, he settles on the sofa and pours himself a glass of Dandelion and Burdock and eats one of pretty much everything he's bought. He looks at it all laid out around him and knows it's ridiculous that he's still surprised at the sight of some much food when he's literally been to parties with serving plates of complementary drugs. He feels sick when he's done but eats one more Garibaldi biscuit for good measure.

After breakfast he parks in the car park with the welcoming plastic sign and heads into the city centre wearing his new headphones. He streams This Is Hardcore to get in the mood as he gets the lie of the land. There's a desolate looking high street - The Moor, a sign says - with empty shop units given over to local history and youth arts projects or just pimping the virtues of each unit's size and competitive rent. He wanders uphill to a more populated shopping area and sees shop workers heading to their respective shops while street cleaners sweep yesterday’s debris away. A few people give him familiar looks but no-one bothers to approach him.

He sits down in the well manicured, fountain embellished Peace Gardens by the town hall and lights a cigarette. His thoughts start catching up with him. What is he doing? What's his plan here? Tour de Britain? Tour de Shitty Northern Cities? Is this the start of some shit BBC travel series? Could he actually do one of those? Given he's less of a national treasure and more of a national nightmare, it's unlikely.

Escape to Plastic Beach would have been over for half a year by now, he appreciates, so he tries imagining what he would have done if things had gone to plan. He draws a blank, he's so far from that reality now. He just remembers 2D’s sounds of pain on the runway at Gatwick. His brain has helpfully stored those away for ready reference.

He watches the magpies and pigeons potter around. They look busy as they peck at the floor and fight over old sausage roll pastry. A little crow peers into a bin for better pickings. He admires the metallic quality of its feathers.

He feels his fear like something lurking in his peripheral vision. Mentally, he steels himself and turns to face it.

How long will it take people to forget about Gorillaz? One number one single, one number one album. They're too difficult to pin down, their albums are too inaccessible. They've got a snobby attitude and their songs are too clever clever for the charts. Not much of a legacy, he thinks. The voice that thinks the thought sounds like Jacob.

He wonders if the Boogieman will come back. His mouth goes dry. He does what any self respecting human on the verge of panic does in 2013 and looks at his phone. Jarvis Cocker keeps asking why he's alive when all that he does seems such a waste of time. He loads Twitter and fires off a few tweets about Sheffield, the middling weather, the threat of rain and how scotch eggs get a bad rap.

2D doesn't have Twitter. He'd once said it was people with their fingers in their ears, shouting random shite at each other. He did look at it though, Murdoc knew, because he'd commented to his face about some of his more choice tweets. He wouldn't have wound up passed out at a rave in Detroit if he didn't look at it.

He tweets ambiguously about what the rest of his year has in store for him, saying he'll see where his feet take him. Fans are quick to retweet and demand to know what's going on, what the band meant by cancelling the final leg of Escape to Plastic Beach due to “exhaustion”, where 2D was.

He wonders how it works for normal bands. He wonders if they have some kind of five year plan they agree with smiles and handshakes. He wonders if they stick to their word and meet up in two or three years' time like clockwork and start diligently and collaboratively writing their next album.

Have Gorillaz broken up? SamF5318 asks.

“You tell me kid,” he mutters in reply, to the birds, to himself, the only person present. It's just him. No voices in his head, no memories following him down the A roads. Just him, shouting random shite online. Just him playing When Love and Hate Collide on his phone because 2D would punch him in the nose a ninth time if he knew he'd come to Sheffield and listened to Def fucking Leppard rather than The Human League.

*

It takes a moment for Stuart to spot Leo in Caffe Costa. He's wearing glasses now, plain metal, own brand frames. His black hair looks uniformly darker, probably dyed. He's still pretty lean and has that same birdlike quality with his large beakish nose, long face and heavy cheekbones. He spots Stuart because of course he does. Half the customers have turned around to stare and mutter. Fewer people approach him for selfies these days but plenty still take what they think are surreptitious photos or watch him in silent judgment.

Leo gets up and they awkwardly stand there, making motions as though to pat the other’s back or hug but there's a small coffee table in the way between the two tub chairs Leo's got them. A handshake feels too formal for a guy Stuart got drunk with in parks, who'd attended all his birthday parties between the ages of four and eighteen. They settle on sharing an embarrassed laugh.

“I'll just get a cup of tea,” Stuart says. “Do you want anything?”

“I'm fine with my coffee. Thanks Stu.”

He queues and their eyes meet a few times. Stuart thinks about pulling a “how slow is this queue?” expression but he knows his expressions are hard to read for pretty much everyone outside the band. He eventually gets his mint tea and rejoins Leo.

“It's good to see you,” Leo says, holding his latte glass in a sort of toast. Stuart mirrors him with his mug.

“Thanks mate. You too.”

Leo sips his drink while Stuart blows on his too hot tea. He slips into Frontman Mode, ignoring the awkward silence and just trusting that his own blather and questions are interesting.

“It's been ages, L. What’re you doing these days?”

“I'm a commercial manager at a haulage company.”

When Stuart asks those kind of questions at after parties or in tour buses he gets weird, new age answers. People are always studying the Alexander Technique or communing with nature or something. Stuart doesn't know if he prefers bland answers or hippy ones. Maybe neither. Stuart gives a nod but, when he can think of nothing to add, he grins sheepishly and asks “what's that involve?”

“I manage contracts,” Leo clearly senses Stuart’s next question and smiles, bright blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “I negotiate them in the first place then I make sure the contractor does what they've agreed to do once the contract's in place.”

“I know a bit about contracts from my law degree,” Stuart offers. “Offer, acceptance, consideration.”

Leo looks lost. “We have a lawyer, she probably knows more about that side of things.”

“Right.” Stuart drinks some of his tea. “Well it sounds interesting.”

Leo shoots him a kind if dubious smile. Then, he laughs.

“What's up?” Stuart asks, confused.

Leo ducks his head, smiling lopsidedly. “It's just weird because I've seen all these articles about you online, and then I remember in reception when Miss Jones was reading us some story while we sat on the mats and you-"

Stuart is already getting flashbacks. “Threw up all over the floor.”

“All those pasta shapes.” They laugh.

“I think it was zoo themed, I remember there being a lot of lions in there,” Stuart recalls. He grins teasingly as he sits forward in his chair. Leo mirrors him subconsciously. “I'm glad that's what you think about when you see me on telly, me throwing my guts up in reception.”

“Well, I also think you look good.”

They share a small, awkward smile.

“It's weird though,” Leo admits.

“What is?”

Leo casts a look around. Most people have lost interest. “You being famous and everything. I never would have guessed. I mean Mike was always the instigator wasn't he?”

“Definitely.”

“When you had your accident,” Leo hesitates. “Well, we just thought you'd be like that forever.”

“Yeah.”

It's always strange, how sad and respectful people get when they talk about the crash. It's like he died. Stuart remembers nothing about it. He's seen the local press coverage and he's spoken to his mum and dad about it but anything before he'd started taking more than the recommended dose of painkillers, anything before The Drunken Monkey, is a just a haze of pain.

“The papers said you were doing stuff with what's his name.” Leo says quietly. Stuart snaps out of his reverie.

“Murdoc.” The name sounds wrong in Caffe Costa, Crawley. It doesn't belong.

Murdoc is in Sheffield. Stuart’s seen his tweets. He's sure they'd talked about going to Sheffield once when they were drunk. Stuart had suggested it, tongue in cheek, as a kind of pilgrimage.

Murdoc had gone to Sheffield and hadn't mentioned synthpop once. He'd even taken a photo of the blue plaque at Psalter Lane commemorating Human League’s first gig and captioned it “off to visit Def Leppard”. 

Def fucking Leppard.

“Is he really called Murdoc?”

“Yeah.” Stuart had never thought to ask but he couldn't imagine a situation where a person would willingly choose the name Murdoc. Not even Murdoc.

“He was the one driving, wasn't he, when-”

“Yeah,” Stuart interrupts.

“Why would you-”

Stuart holds up a hand and Leo comes to an awkward halt. “Can we talk about something else?” Stuart doesn't ask so much as insist. Leo looks surprised at the force of his words. It's a change from his just-happy-to-be-here mentality at school, Stuart supposes.

“Sorry.”

“It's fine, just." Stuart's headache stops him finding the right words so he just shrugs. “It is what it is, isn't it? What good does trying to understand stuff do? I'm here talking to you right now, aren't I?”

“Right,” Leo says, brow knit.

“You seeing anyone?” Stuart asks for a distraction. Leo smiles wryly.

“Mike told you I'm gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Never thought you were gay,” Leo admits softly. “You were pretty keen on girls back in school.”

“I'm not gay. I just like everyone. Or, well, a subset of everyone. I like the ones I like. I never knew you were.”

“It took me a while to realise I suppose, or, admit, I guess. I was just really focused on getting through school.”

“You were really smart. I wouldn't have got through maths if you hadn't let me copy.”

Leo smiles. “You always tried though, and you were always nice about it. Mike just copied it.”

“Mike’s a twat,” Stuart says and Leo knows them both well enough to know Stuart means the word fondly. “You were too smart to hang around with us, weren't you L?”

“Come off it, I’m not the brain of Britain. Middle of the pack.”

“You went to uni!”

“I did Business and Management at Sussex Stu.”

“Well I'm impressed,” Stuart insists playfully. Leo looks a little flustered but happy at their back and forth. Stuart lets himself wonder if Leo had gotten flustered when he'd slung an arm about his shoulders on nights out or when he'd leant in to look at Leo's answers in class back in the day. He's not sure one way or the other but he enjoys the idea.

“Thanks. You're impressive too.”

Stuart sits back in his chair with a sigh. He shoots Leo a confiding look. “Truth told, I'm a bit of a mess right now L.”

“Oh,” Leo looks unsure what to say, not wanting to cross any lines.

“But I'm getting my head screwed back on, you know? Going to therapy and everything.” When Leo looks especially uneasy, Stuart tries to lighten the mood. “I'm not a lunatic, I just got a little carried away having a good time. Sex, drugs and sausage rolls, you know?”

“Too many sausage rolls?”

“Gregglands shares are through the roof,” Stuart agrees and Leo laughs, then looks uncomfortable at the source of their amusement. Stuart leans forward to give Leo's knee a reassuring pat. He senses how Leo's breath catches and likes it.

“I'm fine L. I'm just drying out. It's a bit boring though. Bit lonely.”

“I know the feeling,” Leo says. Stuart looks at him in confusion. “Crawley’s not exactly a gay mecca, you know? You're three degrees of separation from your ex at all times.”

“You could move to London?”

“I don't know many people in London, plus it's so crowded and expensive. I like it ‘round here, it just makes dating tricky.”

“Do you use those apps?”

“Guessing you don't need to bother with them?”

There's no non-arsehole way of answering so Stuart just smiles cheekily. He checks his watch: his appointment is in fifteen minutes.

“You need to get going?” Leo asks.

“Yeah, sorry L.”

“No, this has been good, thanks mate.” They step to the side of the coffee table and Stuart hugs him. One of Leo’s hands cups his shoulder blade. It feels nice.

“We should get dinner or something,” Stuart says. Leo gives him a surprised look as they stay standing close to one another.

“How about the cinema? Have you seen World War Z yet? You were always obsessed with zombie movies at school.”

Stuart bites down on his natural instinct to trash the very idea of Brad Pitt directing a zombie movie. He appreciates that Leo remembered, though.

“Yeah. Sounds good. Let's sort something out.”

*

_[Page one:_

_I was gone with ~~myself in a day~~ the self ~~always~~_

_I was gone_

_I was gone_

_Easy life_

_Get myself ~~al~~ right_

_They give me pills_

_\+ I'm gone_

_Gone gone gone  _

_E Am D? G maj_

_Page two:_

_Tuesday_

_Last nite I dreamt I went to the beach again. I got a B in English Lit. I took it cause there were lots of girls doing it. So did Mike. He still says he got a blow job in the toilet between English Lit + lunch._

_My head hurts more now I take less. My head hurts._

_I don't know what to_ _write. She told me it'd help so I do. ~~(does therapy work if you lie?)~~_

_I ~~don't~~ dreamt about the beach and I didn't die. It's gone. All gone._

_Leo is nice._

_~~Brad Pitt~~ is banned from making films._

_*_

Murdoc parks up in Manchester and toys with going down Canal Street. He sits in the winnebago instead, tweeting his praises for the Stone Roses and Happy Mondays and saying Morrissey can fuck right off.

He catches sight of his reflection in the wing mirror and what a sad piece of shit it looks. He almost feels sorry for the old bastard looking back at him but then he remembers the sort of stuff that bastard gets up to on a regular basis and the feeling passes.

“I'm not good at being on my own,” he announces to the winnebago. He wonders how long it's been since he spoke, since he made anything more than small talk in a pub or a queue. “Because I like the sound of my own voice too much. I've got a great voice; it's got a gorgeous timbre. Gives people a lovely little tingle, y’know?”

There's a resounding silence in the winnebago. There isn't even a robot programmed to agree with him. He's going to start seeing stuff again, he thinks unbidden, throat constricting.

He's ready to either head back to Croydon to whip the worry away or else google nearby electronics stores to buy whatever kit he'd actually need to record his own radio show. Instead, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his contacts list, looking for someone he hasn't either pissed off, ripped off, cut out of his life or otherwise burned all bridges with. He regrets being both a massive extrovert and a complete dickhead.

He's gotten all the way to W, hastily scrolling past “Clever Clogs” (Russel), Sprog and “What Now?” (2D) when he spots an unfamiliar entry Drunk Murdoc helpfully named “wwhATs hisfacr NY”. It doesn't deter him from ringing the number. Amazingly, whoever it is answers.

“It's three in the freaking morning Limey, this better be good.”

He racks his brain trying to place the voice. It's ridiculous, like something out of Goodfellas. A flash of drunken memory floats to the surface of his brain.

“Bass?”

"Ace.”

“Ace!” Close.

Ace’s then band, the Gang Green Band, had opened for Gorillaz on some West Coast dates during the Demon Days tour before its abrupt end. He remembers sitting together on a fire escape before a show smoking, Ace just hanging out since he was teetotal. He'd looked about fifteen, spotty with long greasy hair and a sleeveless denim jacket sporting as many band patches as physically possible.

Ace had put forward a surprisingly emphatic argument for songs being two minutes long, max. He'd reeled off various early punk bands to support his argument and even gone as far as to claim Punk was one of Gorillaz's best songs. Ace was a bit of a knob.

“Seriously, why are you calling at three in the fricking morning dude?”

“I'm in New York,” he lies effortlessly. “Let's catch up! Been too long mate!”

“Wait, hold up, you're in New York but you're calling at three in the morning?”

“I'm jet lagged. D’you want to knock about?”

“Is that a sex thing?”

“No.”

“Sure, whatever, call back at noon.”

He realises the hitch with that plan. “Make it tomorrow at noon.”

Ace gives a dramatic sigh. “You call me. You wanna knock me up-”

“Knock about.”

“Then you wanna wait a day. What the heck dickwad? Is this a fever dream?”

“Tomorrow. Noon. I'll bring my credit card. Everything's on me.”

He practically hears Ace’s ears prick up.

“Hey now you're talking my language. Alright daddy, I'll pick you up at Myrtle - Wyckoff Aves station.”

“Never call me daddy again.”

The call ends. Barely a day later Murdoc’s sat in Ace’s geriatric Chevrolet Cavalier while Ace shout sings the Red Hot Chili Peppers' cover of Love Rollercoaster at him as they inch up Manhattan to Washington Heights.

He's brought this on himself, Murdoc reminds himself over and over.

“I want to die,” he yells over Anthony Kiedis.

“A little slap and pop won't kill ya,” Ace insists, drumming on the threadbare steering wheel.

“Wouldn't bet on it. Why do you even drive in Manhattan?”

“It's like an hour on the subway. You can't drive east west without a little pain. It's like,” Ace muses, “like, can you get from Camden to Elephant and Castle in July without sweating like a bitch?”

He vaguely remembers, back on the fire escape, that Ace had said he was thinking about living in London for a while and Murdoc had been drunk enough to oversell the virtues of Elephant and Castle. A few years later, he'd received a text out of the blue from Ace attaching a photo of a box room that was even dingier than Murdoc’s back in the day. The text had read “FU man. WTF??”. Murdoc had been in rehab at the time and never replied.

“Bakerloo and Northern line in July? Course you can't.”

“It's just a fact of life. Go with it. All about the journey, not the destination yadda yadda.”

“When did you move back?”

“Like a year ago. Missed the food carts and using my horn.” Ace gives it a pointed pip.

“And those commercials that tell you your depression medication might cause suicidal tendencies?"

“You know it Limey,” Ace grins, showing off all his crooked, pointy teeth. The man’s style is less punk nowadays, more dayglo bomber jackets and vintage trainers. His hair’s the same and his forehead looks even bigger now his hair is starting to recede. As each song starts playing, Ace makes an enthusiastic noise of approval as though the selection comes as a surprise and isn't in fact a homemade playlist. Murdoc can't suppress a smile when MacArthur Park comes on.

“This is acceptable,” he admits and Ace grins wider.

“Oh yeah? Little four to the floor doing it for ya? Think I've got September on here too.”

“Disco is funk's classier cousin,” he says because he feels like shit stirring. Ace gives him an exaggerated look of offence.

“You come into my house-”

When Thrift Shop starts he takes matters into his own hands, taking Ace's phone out of the cup holder and skipping to a yell of protest from Ace.

“Jamiroquai?” he asks, agog. He skips again as fast as he can.

“Judgy aintcha?”

“How do you even know about Jamiroquai?” he gives a bewildered shake of his head. Faith No More is next. He gives up and flops back against the seat.

“When were you born?” he asks.

“I'm legal daddy.”

“Don't.”

Ace sniggers. “‘85. Why?”

Probably not his bastard child then. Good to know.

“1985 or 1885? S’been a hard life, eh Ace?”

Ace's massive forehead furrows. “Throwing that stone? Brave move dickwad.”

“Do we really need to go to this restaurant in this traffic?” Ace gives a single, curt nod. “I’ve got no taste buds left. We could go anywhere. We could go to,” he casts around for something suitably American. “Denny's.”

“I'm banned.”

"Dare I ask?”

“That's need to know. Look, just 'cause you can't taste crap doesn't mean I'm gonna go get McDonalds. If you're paying I want Dominican. I'm getting Dominican. And maybe like a bubble tea, I dunno."

“I've got no fucking idea what you're on about.”

They eventually get uptown and Ace parks in a dodgy looking car park. The restaurant is simple, with plastic cloths on the tables and a muted television on one wall showing a Spanish language news show. Ace orders an absurd amount of chicken, soursop juice (whatever that is) and various side dishes Murdoc has never seen in his life. He picks at his food to begin with. When he can barely taste it as per usual he digs in in earnest.

“Hey it sucks ass about 2D man,” Ace offers as he licks his fingers clean of chicken seasoning. Murdoc's impressed they'd lasted as long as they had before broaching the subject.

“Thanks. Yeah."

“You guys were boning right?” Murdoc fixes him with a withering look. “So that's a yes.”

“Yes.”

“That sucks double the ass man.”

“Thanks,” Murdoc says drily. He watches the television for a while before speaking again. “S’your band still together?”  

Ace bristles.

“Is yours?”

“Bit rich when I'm literally the hand feeding you tonight,” he scowls, before conceding, “not sure. Maybe. Sure I'll know in the fullness of time.”

“Why don't you just call 2D?”

“He wanted a break, he's getting a break.”

“A break from the band or from you?”

It's a valid question and one Murdoc doesn't know the answer to. “Both. He's got my number, he can call me anytime.”

“Alright Debbie Harry.”

“Har har.”

Ace looks up from a dish of plantain, chewing with his mouth slightly open as he considers Murdoc thoughtfully. “You're a proud a-hole, huh?”

“So why'd your band break up?” Murdoc presses and Ace stabs a piece of plantain with more violence than strictly necessary. 

“Things just,” he makes a flatlining motion with one hand. “Our first album did nothing then the label kicked us to the kerb. We looked around for another deal but when Snake called it quits the others just gave up.”

“Getting a deal’s more than most people’ll ever see,” Murdoc offers. “I was in tens of bands before Gorillaz and we never got a look in.”

Ace gives a small nod of thanks, finishing his juice with a slurp.

“So. Yeah, whatever. We had a good time but the money ran out and everyone gave up.” Ace quickly corrects himself. “Everyone ‘cept me. I'm still working on some stuff. You want something done, do it yourself right?”

“You got a day job?”

Ace’s eye gives a twitch and he tries to slurp up more juice, straw making an obnoxious noise that sets Murdoc’s teeth on edge.

"Well? Escort? Burger flipper? What?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Right. But you still write music?”

“Sure,” Ace agrees, tone fiery. “Those guys were amateurs but I don't give up so easy." 

Murdoc smiles at that. He gives a nod of approval and they finish their food, talking shop about the gear they use on the road. It quickly becomes obvious Ace has far more views on the subject than Murdoc.

As promised, Ace makes a detour to get a bizarre purple drink with black balls in it - “it's a bubble tea grandpa, get with the programme” - then they head back to Bushwick, playlist back on. Murdoc threatens to throw Ace's phone out the window when Ace argues that they should leave Will Smith on. Murdoc ignores his protests and skips to Black Flag. 

“So where's your hotel?” Ace asks, nodding his head to the music.

He looks across at Ace with what he thinks is a charming smile. Ace melodramatically leans away from him, eyebrows inching up his forehead in apparent alarm. “Stop doing that dude.”

“What, smiling?" 

“S’creepy as hell. C’mon, where're you staying?”

“I, uh, I don't have anything booked.”

Ace looks at him blankly. “Where were you last night? Sleeping on the subway?”

“I was in Sheffield,” he says. Jet lag washes over him as he realises it's early morning there.

“Where?”

“England.”

Ace looks baffled as he sucks the weird balls in his drink up through his straw and chews on them meditative. “You're so freaking weird man. You flew here yesterday? Seriously?”

“Yeah." 

“If I'd known, you coulda smuggled me in some Vimto, I miss that stuff. You gonna book a hotel now?” He keeps up his not so charming smile and Ace reluctantly makes another guess. “You wanna stay with me? I live in a studio dude.”

“I can sleep on a sofa. I can sleep on the floor." Ace looks baffled by the desperate edge to his suggestions. “I'll pay your rent.”

Ace's eyes widen at that. He stares hard at the road, clearly thinking. “How long?”

“I don't know yet,” Murdoc answers honestly.

“But you'd keep paying for everything the whole time?”

“Sure, provided it's not lobster thermidor and caviar every night.” Murdoc can see the cogs turning in Ace's head. It looks like greed is winning. “This isn't some sex thing right?" 

Murdoc grimaces at him. “D’you think Stu and I were doing stuff because he was a kept man?”

“I don't know your lives.”

Murdoc rubs tiredly at his face, looking out at the traffic. “I don't know why we did anything we did.” That's not quite right but he's too tired to dwell on the thought. Ace seems unnerved by his honesty and Murdoc is more than happy to drop it. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, loads Twitter and takes a photo of a street sign, posting it with the caption “Tell by my attitude that I'm most definitely from Stoke and stuck in pissing traffic on Broadway”. 

“I travel for work,” Ace says eventually. “So I won't always be around.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing. What do you do again?” 

Ace narrows his eyes. “I said I plead the fifth. Fine. You can stay a while. Do you even have clothes with you?”

“No,” he admits. “My bass is in storage. I'll get Jimmy to send it over on its own plane. I can just buy some clothes.” He probably needs a visa, he realises sleepily. He adds that to his mental rider of demands he'll make of Jimmy as part of his constant effort to turn the man's hair prematurely white.

“Can't wait for a roommates’ trip to Forever 21 Limey.”

They're finished with the playlist by the time they reach Bushwick. Murdoc almost walks past the door to Ace's building, it's so nondescript and tucked between store fronts. The corridors are claustrophobically narrow with large metal pipes hanging from the high ceilings. It's clearly an illegal conversion and the apartment itself is just a square room, all exposed brick with a gorgeous view of a lightwell and air conditioning units. One corner of the studio is given over to a table and small kitchen, another to a loft bed and small white box, presumably housing the bathroom. The rest of the room is taken up by a sofa and mess of recording equipment and amps, with an assortment of bass guitars and guitars hanging from the wall.

Murdoc goes to sit on the sofa with a yawn but Ace is already reaching for a cream Professional Precision. He slings the bass on and Murdoc gives him a tired look. “You're not going to slap and pop at me, are you?" 

“If you're gonna stay, we're gonna write.”

“Right now?” 

“Why not? It's not late, you're just jetlagged,” Ace gestures to the wall of instruments. “You play guitar?”

“‘course.”

“How about keyboard?”

“No.”

Ace takes down and hands him a handsome old Gibson acoustic. Murdoc sets it on his lap and Ace joins him on the opposite end of the sofa. He takes a violently green, sticker covered notebook off the sofa arm and flicks through it, making thoughtful noises until he finds a particular page. He holds the notebook out for Murdoc to take. The pages are music stave paper but Ace has written a series of bullet pointed sentences on the page. 

“Are these lyrics?” Murdoc asks, reading the lines together and getting nowhere.  

“No, they're titles.” Murdoc looks at him blankly. “What? I come up with a sweet title and go from there. What do you do?”

“I just… write?”

“Like verbal diarrhoea?”

“I guess.”

“Then you edit?”

2D edited. Murdoc keeps himself from frowning. Armed with Ace’s explanation, he looks back at the page and reads aloud “Sex Murder Party”. 

Ace puffs out his chest, smiling smugly. “Cool right?” 

Murdoc leaves the question hanging. ““She's my calling”?” he reads. “What's that even mean?”

“Like, she's meant for me? I dunno man, it's a work in progress.”

“You got any melodies or are you just a failed strapline writer?”

“There's riffs and licks in there.”

Murdoc flicks through the notebook until he finds pages where the music staves have been used for their intended purpose. He stares blankly at them. Ace apparently spots his lack of comprehension. “Don't read music huh?”

"I'm sure it's lovely,” Murdoc sneers. Ace grins toothily back at him as he gets up and switches his bass for a teal Stratocaster. He plugs it in, messes with the gain and starts playing a buzzing, insistent riff, foot keeping a slow beat.

Murdoc listens for a while before setting down the acoustic and picking up the bass. He plugs it into an amp and starts playing a plodding bassline. They study each other as they play, heads bobbing. Murdoc toys with a few different ideas but keeps coming back to a bassline that's stripped back even by his standards.

“You got a nifty title for this?” he asks as they cycle around again. 

“Not really. But it sounds good right?”

Murdoc grunts in agreement. “A da da da,” he mutters under his breath, brow furrowed. Ace looks at him expectantly. “Dunno. Let's come back to that." 

They play until midnight, when Ace says they better call it quits before his neighbours get pissy. It's probably around dawn in England so Murdoc’s starting to feel more awake again but he strips off his jeans in an effort to look like he might sleep. Ace disappears briefly into the bathroom, emerging wearing pajamas and holding a blanket which he flings at Murdoc.

“You better give me royalties if you record anything we write," Ace says, as he climbs up into the loft bed.

“What's your name again?” Murdoc jokes, laying down on the sofa with a smile.

*

_[Page one:_

_???_

_Hold on._

_calm down._

~~_over onto under me_ ~~

_~~see you see me~~ _

_~~I am on time~~ _

_~~we are on time~~ _

_What is this feeling over me?_

_I hear it_

~~_words are hard_ ~~

~~_how does he do it_ ~~

_Page two:_

_Thursday_

_I got a Twitter account. It's shit._

_Don't know what to do w/_ _it._

_He doesn't shut up._

_He's in New York._

_Why is he in NEW YORK.]_

*

The standing invitation to hang out with Mike’s family carries on through the summer. Stuart doesn't want anyone to feel like they need to entertain him so he insists on paying for some outings while the girls are on their school summer holidays.

It's crazy golf in Epsom this time with Mike and the girls while Laura goes to see her sister in Eastbourne. Mike protests Stuart paying and Stuart ignores him as usual. He's happy to get out of his bedroom, away from Pamela and Joe and countless photos of poor, dumb Stuart with his two working eyes and boring brown hair. He's happy to get away from his well meaning parents, who are clearly waiting for him to lose the plot again. 

The golf course is jungle themed with bright blue streams, orange sand and AstroTurf. He hadn't thought about the theme when booking but the water and sand give him a good opportunity to practice thinking about how he's looking at water, at a beach of sorts, and not dying, not sinking. He's alright, because the beach is long gone and its owner seems saner. As sane as he’s ever seemed.

The girls look like they're enjoying themselves. Sophie is definitely becoming a tweenager and keeps making arguments to Mike about why she should have a phone like her friends. Stuart stays out of it but imagines he isn't helping matters since he keeps checking his own phone while they play.

Murdoc is in Brooklyn. Murdoc is filming crows in Maria Hernandez Park with captions like “My mate Cortez. He likes arepas”. He keeps looking around for a bird to photograph but can't see any and pockets his phone with a frown.

Clearly bored by Sophie and Mike’s conversation, Ellie stays close to his side. She keeps opening her mouth as though to say something then changing her mind. 

“You look like you're having a big think there Eleanor,” he teases. “What's going on eh?”

“I watched one of your videos,” Ellie says conspiratorially. “Dad picked because he said they're all naughty.”

Mike’s not wrong.

“Which one did you watch then?” he asks as he takes his shot, his ball rolling into a bunker.

“I don't know,” Ellie frowns. “You're dancing and there's lots of sand.”

“Oh, that one’s called Dirty Harry.” It says a lot about their music that Mike thinks a song about needing a gun is their most appropriate outing. It's also possible Mike hasn't heard their latest stuff since the people of Crawley think it's “poncy”.

“Did you like it?”

“It was okay,” Ellie says with such brutal honesty that he very nearly laughs. “I like dancing.”

“I know, your mum said you're taking lessons aren't you?”

“Yeah we have a show soon. I'm in two songs.”

He gives an impressed whistle. “Tell you a secret Ellie,” he confides, “I'm writing a new song. You should help me come up with a dance routine for it.”

Ellie's face lights up. “Yeah!”

He gets out his phone again and starts playing the Sleeping Powder demo. It's tempting to tell Ellie that this is a world first exclusive, he's still feeling so triumphant about finally working harpsichord into a song after a decade of trying. He decides against, in an effort to look less nuts. Ellie listens with an impressively rapt expression before starting to move to the music. It's the best thing he's seen in months. He gets a lump in his throat when he remembers how Noodle used to bounce around Kong to their songs. He focuses instead on trying to recreate Ellie’s moves. She corrects him several times, giggling, clearly unimpressed with how he's interpreting her vision. Mike starts watching them, on the verge of laughing.

“If you're not careful I'll start recording and send it into You've Been Framed.”

“No need, it's going in the music video, innit Ellie?” Stuart grins.

“Yeah dad,” Ellie agrees. She looks up at Stuart to explain. “Dad can't dance.”

“I know, I used to see him down Liquid on a Friday night.”

Mike points the handle of his putter at Stuart, smirking. “Oi, don't go telling my kids about that Pot, I'm a reformed man.”

Murdoc calls him Pot. Stuart shakes off the unbidden thought.

“C’mon, get a shift on you two. We need to finish up so Uncle Stu can go see Leo. Plus you're both embarrassing Sophie, aren't they Soph?” Mike teases. Sophie looks even mortified, scowling at the AstroTurf.

Stuart and Ellie power through the remaining holes, Ellie dancing as they move between shots. Mike stands near him, watching as he fails to tap his ball into one hole several times.

“You still planning to surprise him tonight?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” he says defensively. “I've got it all sorted, why would I wait?”

“It's just never been Leo’s thing, has it? Big crowds, busy cities. Why'd you think he stayed in Crawley? It's not because he's thick like me.”

He gives Mike an unimpressed look. “He'll like it.” He had to like it. It was happening. “You don't know what you like ‘til you try stuff, do you?”

“I guess,” Mike says as he tallies up their scores. He wins by a country mile, with Stuart coming in dead last. No surprises there. “Hope you're right for your sake. I always get a gift receipt when I buy Laura anything, not sure you can do that with once in a lifetime trips.”

They drop Stuart off at Leo’s, Ellie giving an enthusiastic wave goodbye, Sophie a more restrained one. When Mike’s pulled away, he knocks on the door. Leo opens it near instantly. They share a quick kiss before going to the kitchen and he grates carrots and chops peppers for a salad while Leo cooks glass noodles and mince. Leo checks on his progress, placing his arm around his waist, sometimes kissing his cheek. It's nice.

They sit to Leo’s square dining table as they eat. He waits until Leo has finished catching him up on the end of his work week since they last saw each other on Wednesday for their film night.  

“I got you a present,” he says. Leo looks lost.

“What for?”

“Because,” he shrugs. He'd thought about saying it was their five month anniversary but that felt a bit juvenile. Leo’s birthday was in January so that didn't work either. “I just wanted to.”

“Thanks Stu, you didn't have to,” Leo looks at him, clearly expecting the present to materialise. “What did you get?”

“A trip to New York.”

Leo's eyes widen. His fork pauses on its way to his mouth. “What?”

“A trip to New York.”

“When?”

“November. I remember you said you have loads of leave left.”

“For how long?”

“Ten days.”

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

“That's… that's a lot,” Leo says, sounding dazed.

“I wanted to.” Stuart tries not to get annoyed but his constant low level headaches nowadays make it a challenge. “I'm paying. Flights, hotel, everything when we get there.”

Leo still looks taken aback. Stuart skewers some pepper on his plate and chews it angrily. Leo reaches out to hold his arm with a soft frown.

“Stu, what's up?”

“I dunno, I'm just trying to be nice and I feel like I'm a knob for wanting to treat you,” he lies. “I won't bother in the future.”

“Stu, don't be like that,” Leo says, voice edged with irritation. “It's really kind, thank you, just… check next time? We could plan something together then, that’d be good.”

He can't keep his mouth shut. “So are we going or not?”

“We're going,” Leo says, leaning forward. He meets him halfway and they share a kiss across the table. “Just ask me next time, okay?”

“Okay.”

Flying for leisure is a novelty. When November comes they queue, along with the entire population of Crawley, it seems. They take off their shoes and belts and put their electronic items in plastic trays for scanning. Stuart comes very close to asking a member of staff if they know who he is so he can speed things up. They get breakfast at Wetherspoons rather than the lounge because Leo mentioned getting a Full English a few times in the taxi to the airport. Now their flight is imminent, Leo is more enthusiastic, happily flicking through a guidebook they'd bought at the WH Smith. He surprises himself with how few sights he's actually visited, despite the number of times he's been to New York. His memory of most cities tends to centre around airports, clubs and arenas. Leo is particularly interested in visiting some of the parks, the Natural History Museum and maybe the zoo. Stuart nods along with his suggestions. He checks his phone.

Murdoc is on the Highline, complaining about how cold New York's getting. He's posted a selfie and he's wearing a striped t-shirt Stuart hasn't seen before. There's a familiar looking guy in the back of the shot, relatively young but with massively receding hair. Whoever it is is playfully gurning and making Murdoc look like he's got devil horns with his fingers. Stuart doesn't reply.

When they board, Leo looks confused as the stewardess directs them to the upper deck. Stuart takes the proffered champagne without looking and turns to toast Leo. He looks dumbstruck.

“Oh, yeah, I don't fly economy,” he explains, sitting down at the bar. Some emotion flits across Leo’s face before he joins him at the bar and gently toasts Stuart's glass.

“To us?” Leo suggests. Stuart smiles and clinks their glasses.

“To us. To New York.”

*

Autumn in New York is a relief. The smell of hot piss fades and trips on the subway no longer feel like descents into hell. Ace is true to his word and disappears for weeks at a time, leaving Murdoc to wander around Brooklyn, work on music and tweet excessively. It also gives him time to test his theory that 2D is following him. On Twitter, at least, albeit not literally following his account.

He posts a photo of the recently shipped El Diablo with a caption about how he blows himself away with his own genius.

The next day, 2D just tweets “I was gone gone gone”. Fans freak out and start asking if he needs an ambulance but Murdoc knows the words pass for lyrics in 2D’s world. 2D deletes the tweet rather than explain himself, posting something mundane about going to the cinema instead. He can't stop imagining what 2D's working on. He tries working “gone, gone, gone” into one of the songs he's working on with Ace but nothing fits.

He posts a photo of an obnoxious filter coffee he orders in an even more obnoxious coffee shop in Williamsburg, with a caption about how he's growing a beard and joining Arcade Fire. The next day, 2D posts a photo of a revolting looking blended drink from Caffe Costa, all chocolate syrup, chocolate chips and cream. He gets a cavity looking at it.

He wants to message him. He doesn't. He remembers what Ace said: he's Debbie Harry. 2D can call him out of exile any, any time.

He figures out that Ace's day job is smuggling. The brick of cocaine on the kitchen table is a dead giveaway, not to mention the fact that they're sharing a studio flat so he sees all Ace's comings and goings. He watches as Ace repackages the cocaine into smaller packets. He attempts to cadge a few eight balls and Ace smacks his hand away like he's baking and Murdoc's trying to steal batter.

“Don't you sample it?” Murdoc asks. “You know, for quality control?”

“I don't do drugs,” Ace says firmly.

“You don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?” he quips.

Ace smirks. “I smuggle drugs, keep up old timer.”

“You live a bit far from the border for this line of work, don't you?”

“Didn't ask for your opinion Limey.”

“How'd you hide it?” Murdoc asks out of curiosity.

“The back of my amp and behind this one panel in my car,” Ace shrugs.

“D’you use vacuum sealed containers?”

“Dude, this isn't my first rodeo,” Ace says, looking mildly offended. He's half tempted to just offer Ace some cash but it's become clear that, if there isn't the justification of paying for board, Ace quickly gets uncomfortable with the idea of Murdoc giving him large sums of money. Murdoc had offered to put them both up in a apartment in Manhattan and Ace had launched into a lengthy rant extolling the virtues of Brooklyn and damning Manhattan in no uncertain terms. Murdoc wonders if his reaction had had anything to do with the time he'd drunkenly offered him a blow job after a particularly lary evening with some of Ace's mates in Queens.

“Just don't get complacent and get caught.”

“Be a real tragedy, you losing your only friend like that,” Ace sneers.

Murdoc opens his mouth to protest. He shuts it again with a matching sneer.

“Did you ever smuggle?” Ace asks.

“Not really, more of a theft, B&E sort of man,” Ace looks blank. “Breaking and entering. You want something, take it, that's my ethos.”

“Sure is an illegal ethos.”

Murdoc makes a noise of agreement. “Life owes me everything.”

“Whatever man.” Ace finishes his repackaging job then proceeds to place the drugs in the back of one amp for safekeeping. He picks up the keys to his Chevy and points them at Murdoc as he walks to the door. “I'm getting a Big Gulp to celebrate a job well done. Don't panic and chew up the furniture while I'm gone, alright?”

“No promises,” he says. He waits until Ace’s footsteps recede down the hall then nicks a wrap of cocaine out of the amp. He perks up after he's snorted it and starts tinkering with an idea that currently involves little more than a slow sliding note followed by a bassline so simple he knows the technical magazines are going to hunt him down with pitchforks.

His phone chimes. He's explained to Ace that the notification tells him when he's got a message but the truth is it tells him when 2D tweets. He yanks his phone out of his pocket fast enough to whack it on the edge of El Diablo. He offers his bass a hasty apology and a pat while he unlocks his phone and looks at the tweet.

He's posted a photo of an entrance to 28th Street station with the caption “I keep on ridin ridin ridin”.

2D is in Manhattan. Murdoc stares harder at his phone. He wants to believe that the coke is responsible for the way his heart races.

2D is in Manhattan.

*

Leo is looking out of their room’s windows with wide eyes. He stares down Broadway then tries to peer up and past the buildings to the night sky.

Given the extent of Leo's surprise at the room - spacious, with a bed as wide as it is long, a “curated” mini bar and an acoustic guitar for some reason - Stuart is glad he didn't book the penthouse.

Stuart joins him by the window. The rooms faces west. He wants to look east. He stares at the building opposite, at the people down on the street below. He feels Leo smile at him, his expression a mixture of awed and concerned. He steps behind Leo and slides his arms around his waist.

Leo makes a noise of contentment. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

“It's fine, really. Call it an early Christmas present,” he dismisses. Leo looks at Stuart's reflection in the window. Stuart keeps looking at the darkening street.

“What are you thinking about?” Leo asks softly.

Murdoc is in Brooklyn. Murdoc is half an hour away.

“About how I want you to fuck me,” he lies, turning Leo around and kissing him hard.

*

_[Page one:_

_~~I think I might be you~~ _

_Page two:_

_???_

_Leo asked about you._

_I said I didn't know you but I know you._

_That's right. That's what it is, ~~isn't it?~~_

_I know you_

_You know I do_

_You know me too_

_I said we needed to know who we are without each other._

_It's too late for that.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed my mind, Ace is alright. Ace for President. 
> 
> Feel free to swing by my tumblr if you want to say chat about these disasters or the pure joy that is Ace (elapsed-spiral). 
> 
> Fun fact: Sex Murder Party is my least favourite Gorillaz song. Dead last. But I listened to it for this.


	16. Interlude: March 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other D Day. Only Murdoc remembers their first conversation.
> 
> Warnings for serious injury, vomiting, distressing scenes and further plot deviation (I'm operating on the basis that Murdoc is a lying liar). Additional warning for the most ridiculous “application” of the criminal sentencing guidelines ever (lore forced my hand - seriously, how does Murdoc still have a driver's licence?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who still can't write another chapter until the Phase 5 plot makes sense?
> 
> P.S. updates are coming faster because I'm in hospital tonight with nothing to do (I'm fine, I just have shit kidneys. God bless the NHS and my wonderful wife). I won't be maintaining this frequency when I'm back at work.

Stuart turns to put the FS1R on the stand but the stand's not there. He frowns and turns the other way, ready to ask Norm if he should fetch a new one from the back.

It's dark in the shop.

It's cold and raining in the shop.

When Stuart looks down at his feet he sees, as though through fog, Fila trainers that aren't his. He'd never hear the end of it from his mum if he wore trainers to work. He throws up on them and feels better afterwards. His head is clearer but his vision is still grey and hazy, like he's looking through clouds but the clouds are inside him.

The longer he stands there, the more details seep in.

The smell of rubber, petrol and acrid smoke.

The sound of driving rain, bouncing off the tarmac. He's soaked.

A large building with dark windows. Perched on the roof is a glowing sign. Stuart squints and makes out blue dashes and red letters.

He doesn't work at Tesco. He doesn't work nights. This doesn't feel like dreaming.

Stuart lurches clockwise and sees a trail of glittering glass shards ending at his Fila clad feet.

He forces himself forward on foal-like legs, crunching glass underfoot, until he reaches the crumpled bonnet of a Vauxhall Astra the colour of Caramac. He squints in the glare of its one surviving headlight. There's a gaping hole where the windscreen should be. There's a trail of glass that ends at his feet. They're connected somehow.

Stuart's head starts to pound, like a weight is pressing down on his forehead. He trembles harder.

Something moves inside the car.

Stuart edges around the bonnet, shivering in the rain in a Tesco car park that isn't the Hazelwick Avenue Tesco car park because the layout is wrong and the mini roundabout is missing. He feels panic rise like more bile burning its way up his throat.

When he makes to open the driver's side door, the shadow inside stirs with a groan.

“Please help me,” someone asks. It takes a moment for Stuart to realise he said it. The thin, reedy voice is unfamiliar.

“Help me, please.”

His words whistle faintly and Stuart probes his teeth with his tongue to find the front ones are gone, leaving slippery, coppery gums exposed.

Stuart tries to get his fingers to open the car door. He fumbles and misses. He catches words from the shape inside. A man. A stranger. He's saying two words, repeating them rapidly.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Jesus-”

*

Like everything Murdoc did, it had seemed like a great idea at the time. That probably had something to do with how eye wateringly high he was. It also had something to do with his belief, grown over months sat at bedsides and by wheelchairs in hospital waiting rooms and doctors’ surgeries, that this was no life. Not for himself, nor for the idiot who failed to spot an Astra careening towards him.

He starts off small: prodding the twat’s side and talking to him about whatever comes into his head. Prodding became pinching, talking turned into berating the industrial quantities of synthpop cassettes and CDs piled up around his bedroom.

Nothing has any discernible effect until Murdoc plays him music. He'd spotted the prat's Walkman, placed neatly on top of a chest of drawers next to his surprisingly undamaged work name badge. Murdoc ferrets through his CD collection again, electing for Cool For Cats and listening to it while he glares at the idiot's glazed and unfocused “good” eye. When Murdoc gets to Up The Junction, he puts the headphones on the prat for a laugh and is convinced his mouth purses. The next day Murdoc brings some CDs from his bedsit and plays him One Inch Man as loud as the Walkman will go. The twat's snub nose definitely wrinkles, the corners of his narrow mouth turning down.

Murdoc treats it as a major victory (albeit not one for taste) and his speed addled brain takes the thought to its logical conclusion: he needs louder music.

Murdoc makes up some cobblers about wanting to give the Pots a break and they agree that Stuart can stay overnight with him. As soon as he's driven out of the cul de sac, he cranks Paranoid loud enough to make the seats vibrate. To his own surprise, he heads north and winds up on the M1, all the while shooting the twat sidelong looks. He's closest to the idiot's broken eye but the glimpses he gets of the normal one are no more cognisant.

Murdoc drives for hours, playing Paranoid through four times and veering towards the central reservation each time he faffs with getting the cassette out to flip it. The idiot does little more than twitch. Murdoc pulls into a service station to get petrol and snort speed. The motorway empties out after midnight so he puts his foot down and weaves from lane to lane.

He becomes convinced that the moron responds to the sudden changes in direction. He tests his theory by coming off the motorway and going around a roundabout several times at speed. The twat is flung against the passenger door and Murdoc reckons he mumbles, though it’s hard to tell over the rain that's drumming on the roof.

The roundabout gives Murdoc another idea. He starts checking road signs for supermarkets or superstores, anything with a big car park. Everything is dead this early on a Sunday morning. He settles on Tesco.

“Need anything from Tesco?” he asks sarcastically. He's met with silence. In the car park, he slips the car into reverse, slams on the accelerator then yanks the steering wheel as far as it will go when they start spinning. The idiot thuds into the passenger door again and Murdoc laughs, slowly increasing speed, watching the glowing Tesco sign whip by the windscreen time and again.

“Having fun Stu?” he yells. Silence.

When he's starting to get dizzy he puts the car into first, ready to send them around the other way. Foot on the accelerator, he lifts the handbrake with one hand and turns the steering wheel sharply with the other. The wheels screech nicely and they start to spin when he feels the grip go, like a taut wire being cut. The wheels slip on the rain. He scrabbles to right the steering wheel but wonders if he should just steer into it. The decision is made for him when they slam into a bollard. He sees sudden, violent motion to his left. He hears glass shatter. His head smashes against the steering wheel and that’s that.

When he comes to there's an unfamiliar voice asking for help. Murdoc takes a moment to remember where he is. He looks at the driver's side door and sees a spindly arm clawing at it, backlit by the queasy yellow glare of the headlight. The figure leans down.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Jesus-”

Stuart's face is framed in the window. Murdoc only knows it's him because of the snub nose and narrow mouth. The rest is a mess of congealing blood encrusted with grit. Murdoc stares at his eyes, matching now. He sees his own horrified, ashen face reflected in them and wants to wake up.

“Please help me,” Stuart asks, high pitched and scared. Murdoc thinks about driving away, his shaking hand reaching for the key in the ignition.

“Help me, please,” Stuart sobs. Murdoc makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat then reaches out to open the door. Stuart stares at him with bottomless eyes and Murdoc forces himself to look the man over. He's drenched, bloodied and covered in scrapes but otherwise, inexplicably, whole. Murdoc turns and throws up. He catches sight of Stuart's shoes as he hunches over and sees the remnants of vomit on them, smells the acidic tang of it.

“Are you alright?” Stuart asks, sounding punchdrunk. Murdoc nods, covering his face with his hand.

“Where am I?” Stuart asks, words almost lost in the rain.

“Nottingham.”

“Nottingham?”

“Yeah.”

“It's dark.”

“Yeah.”

“Wet for August.”

“It's March.”

Stuart’s eyes widen, making his face even more nightmarish. Murdoc has to look away.

“When? When is it March?”

Murdoc doesn't understand but says, “March 98.”

Stuart cries out. Murdoc sees his legs threaten to buckle and grabs him under the arms. They both nearly fall.

“What about Magaluf?”

“What about it?” Murdoc asks deliriously.

“We're going to Magaluf, just the boys. We're going in September,” Stuart's voice is choked with tears. It would be funny if it wasn't so terrible. Stuart begins shaking, breath turning ragged and laboured.

“What's wrong?” Murdoc asks, feeling colder with dread.

“Hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything. My eyes hurt,” Stuart says, squinting. He makes to lean down to the wing mirror and Murdoc clutches his arm hard enough to make him yelp.

“Don't look.”

Stuart’s face turns grey under the blood and grit.

“Why not?”

Murdoc swallows hard and looks back at the battered car. He takes a breath and walks Stuart to the passenger side, bundling him in with sodden, tingling hands. He finds the seat belt and leans across Stuart. He tries to buckle it but misses, again and again, unable to keep down a hopeless noise. Stuart's freezing cold, spidery hand cups his and somehow, they force the belt to click. Murdoc stumbles around to the driver's side, breath coming in huffs. He fastens his own seat belt with some effort and only because Stuart is watching him.

“Are you okay to drive?” Stuart asks.

Murdoc jerks his head, focused on keeping his hand steady enough to turn the key in the ignition. Amazingly, the engine starts with a grating noise. Iron Man starts playing and Murdoc rips the cassette out of the player and throws it out of the decimated windscreen before putting the car into gear.

“Thank you for helping me.”

Murdoc grips the steering wheel harder. He drives out of the car park at the speed limit. He checks his mirrors even though there's no traffic. He stops at traffic lights. The wind and the rain pour in through the space where the windscreen should be.

When Murdoc isn't watching, Stuart leans down to look in the wing mirror and lets out a subhuman moan.

“Wh-wh-”

Murdoc clamps his eyes shut, as though it might deafen the godawful sounds.

“Am I gonna die?” Stuart gasps.

Murdoc doesn't know. He forces his eyes open again, grips the steering wheel tight enough to hurt, head pounding. He makes a noise of relief when, barely a mile down the road, he spots the entrance to a hospital. He flicks on his indicator, silently begging the traffic lights to change while Stuart makes a noise like a wounded animal. He follows the signs for A&E. The car has barely stopped when Murdoc climbs out, stumbles around to the passenger door and hauls Stuart out, dragging him past the smokers and people waiting for lifts, congregating by the entrance. Everyone turns to stare.

They're scarcely through the doors before two medics pour Stuart's too long limbs onto a gurney. His hair matches their tunics. His moans bounce off the walls, fading as the swinging doors close behind them. The other people waiting to be seen stare after Stuart, talk softly among themselves, steal glances at Murdoc. Murdoc waits fractionally longer to be seen, sat in a plastic chair and staring at a blank TV on a wall bracket until he's bundled into a room where a nurse shines a light in his eyes. She studies the bump on his forehead and tells him he'll need to stay in for observation because he's vomited. They ask him about the crash and he says he can't remember, he just knows he skidded in the rain and no-one else was involved. Murdoc lets them put him in a bay, take his temperature, put a little wristband on him. He changes into a gown and lies on the gurney, staring at the blue concertina of the bay curtain.

He starts to feel less spacey around dawn. The matron is busy at the other end of the ward dealing with someone with kidney stones who's groaning and crying. The noises remind him of Stuart and Murdoc knows he's got to go. He slips out, clothes tucked under one arm and gets on a bus for Nottingham city centre. He steals some White Lightning from an off licence and sits in the vast, featureless town square, empty save for some pigeons bathing in large puddles leftover from last night's deluge. The morning wears on and people start appearing around the square. Murdoc's halfway down the bottle of cider before he appreciates why people are giving him a wide berth: his still damp clothes are folded on his lap. He looks down and sees that his feet are bare, as are his calves and knees, peeking out from under the gown. It explains why his arse is so cold, he thinks dazedly, before draining the rest of the bottle. He wakes up in a police cell.

At the trial, Murdoc pleads not guilty, insisting he lost control because lies are always more convincing when they're based on the truth. He embellishes by saying he was going north to visit his ailing elderly father but he senses the judge's sympathy is in short supply given his record.

The judge is clearly as confused as Murdoc is whether Stuart's revival constitutes a mitigating or aggravating factor in his sentencing. Murdoc's confident the judge insists on more community service because he can tell how hard Murdoc is praying for jail. The man had watched Murdoc intently as he'd looked anywhere but at the photographs they'd taken of Stuart at the hospital when they were shown to the court.

There's a new regime of drugs now he's conscious. Tragically they're all opioids so Murdoc has little interest in filching any. They're highly effective. The memory of Stuart, horrified, pained, enquiring, devastated, all in a matter of minutes, is replaced with a frail looking man as blank as a sheet of paper.

When Murdoc visits, Stuart's invariably sat up in bed, neatly shaved, hair combed and dressed in clean pyjamas or joggers. His eyes make it impossible to tell where he's looking. At first, Murdoc had made an effort to say “hello” or “morning” but the words so often resulted in Stuart cringing in pain that Murdoc gave up saying anything.

On days where Stuart seems less pained, Murdoc tries playing music. Stuart requests that it's played quieter and quieter until it's turned off entirely. The curtains stay drawn and they watch Big Breakfast with the sound off and the brightness adjusted so Mark Lamarr looks like he's presenting the show in a coal mine.

Murdoc sits surrounded by who Stuart used to be. Shelves of synthpop, a seemingly customised synthesiser gathering dust against one wall. Posters of Pamela Anderson and the Clash watch him from the walls. In the wardrobe there's several Crawley Town shirts, sandwiching his old school shirt which teems with signatures and quotes from friends and classmates.

Blu-tacked to the wall beside his bed are photographs, and in every one Stuart has a broad grin and a full set of teeth. His arm is always flung around someone's shoulders, head tilted towards whoever it is. Murdoc looks between the photos and Stuart now, slumped, expression slack, and decides again that this is no life.

There's flashes of a person after he takes each dose of medicine. His head turns to look at the synthesiser on more than one occasion, before dropping back against the pillows with a pained frown. Murdoc “accidentally” forgets how many pills he's given him in a bid to keep Stuart around for longer before he fades away again.

The days pile into weeks. Murdoc feels his anger grow when he can't foresee a future that doesn't involve watching daytime television on mute and queuing for prescriptions at Boots for a man who can barely string a sentence together.

Murdoc gets up when Denise van Outen starts pissing about in a shell suit and stick on handlebar moustache on the television. He yanks open the door of the idiot's wardrobe, pulls out the first jacket he finds and proceeds to shove the berk into it. He locates some trainers under the bed and rams them on his feet. The prat tries and fails to work his fingers and thumbs to tie the laces before sitting back with a defeated whimper. Murdoc ties them for him, tight, double knotting each and ignoring his slight noises of protest.

“Where are we going?” the idiot murmurs.

“Out.”

“I don't wanna go. My head hurts,” he looks at the drawn curtains almost fearfully. “S'bright out.”

Murdoc picks up a pair of ridiculous, Oasis looking sunglasses from the chest of drawers and holds them out for the twat to take.

“Slap those on.”

The prat slots the sunglasses on with some effort, squinting through the lenses. Murdoc shakes out three tablets from the pill bottle and pushes them into his hand. The idiot looks down at them like he's never seen tablets before.

“Is it time for more?”

“Yes,” Murdoc lies, and the moron dry swallows the drugs with a frown. Murdoc grabs him by the arm and walks them downstairs, spinning a lie to Rachel about Stuart wanting to get some air. She looks so optimistic about the development that her eyes well up with tears and Murdoc has to keep himself from reacting. She straightens the collar of the idiot’s denim jacket, gives them both a watery smile and then they're out the door. Murdoc feels freer outside, better still when they've left the cul de sac and are heading for the nearest bus stop.

“Where are we going?” Stuart asks again as he staggers along in the sunshine. They flop onto the bus shelter bench. Murdoc lights a cigarette and glares at the traffic, willing the number 4 bus to appear.

“We're going to The Drunken Monkey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not (quite) sad enough to check when Nottingham Tesco was built but it genuinely is a ten minute drive to the nearest hospital. They're lucky boys, sort of.
> 
> Thanks for reading and feel free to come say hey on tumblr (elapsed-spiral).


	17. Interlude: October 1998

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On his final mandated visit, Murdoc gives Stuart a Nokia mobile phone with a changeable fascia and game. He shows Stuart how to make a call and there's just one number in the address book, labelled “Me”.
> 
> "Why would you need to get hold of me?” Stuart asks but he thinks he already knows.
> 
> “Band stuff.””
> 
> Post Drunken Monkey, pre Kong.
> 
> Warnings: not a warning I thought I'd ever have to write but disrespectful (albeit absurd, gallows humour style) discussion of the death of Princess Di? IDK, the British have a complicated relationship with the monarchy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last interlude for now - it's back to 2014 after this.

The Probation Service is at a loss what to do once Stuart's back in the land of the living. There's talk of Murdoc picking up litter or doing up the Pots’ garden but, probably for convenience and paperwork's sake, they opt to suspend the rest of his sentence for two years instead.

On his final visit, Murdoc gives Stuart a Nokia mobile phone with a changeable fascia and game. He shows Stuart how to make a call and there's just one number in the address book, labelled “Me”.

“This must have cost a bob or two,” Stuart says. He tries to extend the aerial but it turns out it doesn't extend.

“If I'd bought it, it probably would've,” Murdoc agrees. Stuart looks up in alarm.

“Did you steal it?”

Murdoc gives a non-committal shrug. Stuart tries to hand it back but Murdoc just crosses his arms and smirks.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“So I can get hold of you without ringing your mum.”

“Why would you need to get hold of me?” Stuart asks but he thinks he already knows.

“Band stuff. I'm still on the lookout for a guitarist but we can make a start on writing.”

Stuart knows it's the perfect opportunity to say he's not interested in being in a band and that he has no experience writing music beyond ripping off some Heaven 17 melodies for the composition elements of his piano exams. He opens Snake and plays until Murdoc wafts a hand in front of his face. When he looks up, the snake tries to eat itself.

“Call me if you need me, alright?” Murdoc says. Stuart’s mouth works silently with questions before he opts to nod.

*

Stuart tries taking different approaches to his accidents.

He pretends they didn't happen but then little kids point at him or he looks in the bathroom mirror while he's trying to shave and his hand still doesn't grip quite right and he ends up covered in nicks and bits of tissue paper. It strikes him as strange that he can experience the aftermath but only remember ABBA, driving rain and karaoke. He can't remember much about falling out of the tree either though. His mum had always said that that was because he'd been in so much pain his body had protected him by making him forget.

He tries picking up where he left off and making light of it. He goes down the Oak with his old schoolmates, gets a beer despite what it says on his pill bottle in print so small he can't read it and joins in with their laughter. They talk about different girlfriends, new jobs and how their university and college courses are going. They make a concentrated effort not to stare at his eyes or teeth. He mostly just nods along, waiting to have something to add. Mike eventually makes an effort to include him and Stuart cringes internally because he knows that’s what Mike did with awkwarder boys at school and new kids who needed a friend.

Stuart's grateful that Mike doesn't seem fazed. They congregate one Saturday in the Oak and Stuart gets a weird coin in his change and asks the barmaid if it's foreign. Everyone looks uncomfortable, glancing between themselves until Mike laughs, calls him Demolition Man and explains it's a new two pound coin. He shows him its features in agonising detail until Stuart threatens to pour his pint over him, laughing in relief.

Stuart spends more time at Mike's after that and Mike takes it upon himself to give him a rundown of everything he's missed over a spliff. Stuart's glad he finally understands why everyone keeps joking that they did not have sexual relations with that woman. He also decides, reluctantly, that he's going to have to watch Titanic, though it sounds a bit crap.

It's a couple of weeks later that Mike admits that none of them expected him to recover, not when they saw him hooked up to so much kit in the hospital in the beginning. Stuart doesn't know whether to agree or apologise. He keeps drinking his Stella and Mike chuckles.

“You know how in movies they play people music and talk to them to try and bring them ‘round?”

“Yeah?”

“We did all that, then you did come ‘round, sort of, but you were in too much pain so we had to stop. Now though,” he digs around in a pile of VHS tapes next to his television, slapping four on the bed beside Stuart. “Now you can appreciate the lengths I went to, Pot.”

Stuart picks up one of the tapes and squints at the label: “World Cup 98 - Group Stage - England v Tunisia”. He bursts into teary laughter and Mike slings an arm around his shoulders, giving him a friendly jostle.

“Run round yours quick and get your England shirt on so we can get this over with.”

“We won the tournament though yeah?” Stuart asks wetly and Mike laughs.

“What gave it away?”

*

While he's getting back on his feet, Stuart takes to accompanying his parents on errands, just to get out of the house. He goes to Tesco with his mum and counts the Astras in the car park. She gets him Butterscotch Angel Delight like she used to when he was sick.

He goes into town with his dad to deposit cash from the funfair at the bank. Stuart stares at the large plate glass window facing onto the high street and waits for something to happen. When nothing does, he plays with the chain on the pen sitting on the counter while the woman weighs his dad’s bags of fifty pence pieces.

His realisation that nothing else is going to happen is gradual. When it sinks in, he stops playing Snake on his phone and opens the address book. Murdoc answers his call almost instantly.

“You know where Lexington Street is?” Murdoc says apropos of nothing.

“Er-”

There's an audible sigh. “I'll meet you at Oxford Circus station. The exit nearest the Palladium.”

“Uh-”

"How can you live that near London and not have a clue?”

“I guess we didn't go into London much when I was younger. Is it that exit we used when we went to The Drunken Monkey?”

“Exactly. Tomorrow at three?”

“Alright. See you then.”

Murdoc's loitering by the exit, smoking and surveying the gaggles of tourists. Stuart gives him an awkward smile, already questioning his choices.

“Are we going to The Drunken Monkey then?”

“Thought we'd go somewhere closer.”

It's a short walk into Soho. The pub, The Sun, Moon and Stars, is larger and brighter with windows facing the moderately busy street outside. They get a round table in the back and, unprompted, Murdoc gets a pint of Stella for Stuart and a cider for himself. Stuart makes a noise of surprise.

“Thanks. That's my order actually.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much,” Murdoc says, disparagingly. Stuart drinks rather than react.

He still doesn't know what to make of Murdoc and only has his mum's sanitised account and what he's read in the local papers to work off. Murdoc Faust Niccals, 31, of Trinity Street, Southwark, had lost control of his car on two separate occasions. Murdoc Faust Niccals, unemployed, was full of remorse for his actions. Sat smoking a roll up with his Cuban heel clad feet on another stool, he didn't look contrite.

Judging by his accent he was northern but Stuart had never been north of the M25 so he was clueless where exactly he was from. He looked strung out. Stuart guessed he did cocaine based on his one long, red fingernail and how animated he seemed after a trip to the toilet. He had a mismatched eye, like Bowie, and an intense stare. Stuart catches Murdoc watching him and frowning on more than one occasion and it knocks any half formed questions or comments out of his head. It occurs to him, halfway down his pint, that Murdoc has never offered him an apology. It feels like they missed the turning for one several months ago and the combination of beer, pills and Murdoc’s scowling keeps Stuart from making anything of it.

“So, Princess Di's dead,” Stuart hears himself say finally.

Murdoc stares harder for a second before barking a laugh, sharp teeth on show. Stuart joins in, biting his lip hard in an effort to shut himself up. Murdoc takes a moment to school his expression into mock solemnity.

“Very sad obviously.”

“Obviously, yeah, I mean, she was the people's princess.”

Stuart starts with surprise when Murdoc reaches across the table to shove his shoulder, laughing an even scratchier laugh that has other patrons turning to look at them. Stuart tries to drink his beer but chokes on it.

“No, but it is very sad though,” Stuart insists when he's got himself under control. Murdoc nods, lighting another skinny rollie and offering Stuart one. He declines.

“Wall to wall coverage on the telly for days,” Murdoc mutters. “I went to fucking Blockbuster in the end to get summat to watch and the shelves were bare. Everyone’d had the same idea.”

“So what did you do, listen to Candle in the Wind?”

Murdoc grins around his cigarette.

“On repeat. Nah, I got munted and listened to XTC.”

“Which album?”

“Like it'd mean anything to you,” Murdoc scoffs. Stuart senses he's goading him rather than actually doubting his knowledge.

“Skylarking?”

Murdoc looks pleased, leaning back in his chair and blatantly studying Stuart. Stuart returns his gaze levelly.

“What else would I be listening to?” Murdoc asks.

“English Settlement? Black Sea?”

Stuart gets a round in and they settle into their conversation. XTC leads to Dukes of the Stratosphear leads to Syd Barrett. Stuart only checks the time when he gets hungry: six o’clock. He shoves down his surprise and orders chicken in a basket from the bar. Murdoc nicks a few of his chips but otherwise survives on cider, rollies and a bag of pork scratchings. The pub gets busier as people leave work so they take turns guarding their table while the other goes to the toilet. Murdoc continues resting his feet on the stool despite how many people eye it for their own overcrowded tables. It makes more sense when Russel appears, pint of water in hand.

“Alright mate,” Murdoc greets him gruffly.

“Murdoc.” Russel takes in Stuart, with a “hey man”, before addressing Murdoc again. “Careful, you might be making a friend.”

“Fuck off, I've got friends. I'm delightful,” Murdoc snaps, cigarette dangling from his lip.

“Where you keeping them?”

“‘ve got plenty of mates. Old band mates.”

“Which ones?”

“The ones I don't owe money.”

“Right, so none of ‘em.”

Stuart gets a sense that Murdoc purposefully teed Russel up. He's reminded vaguely of himself and Mike.

“How was work?” Stuart asks.

“Kinda quiet, but it keeps me outta trouble,” Russel shrugs. He considers their recently cleared table. “You guys been here long?”

“Since three, we're pissed,” Murdoc says without ceremony. “We've been talking ‘bout music.”

“You talk about anything else?”

It's partly that Russel is sober, but the man has an air of calm intelligence completely at odds with Murdoc's tirades and Stuart's own drunken babble. His American accent is deep and posh enough that Stuart feels slightly intimidated and wrong footed by his presence.

Murdoc scoots his stool closer to Stuart so they're sat equidistant around the table. He jerks his head at Russel.

“What I was trying to say when we popped ‘round Big Rick's, before Russ’s boss rudely booted us out, is that Russ’s my hip-hop expert.”

“He booted you out because you stole those Kool Keith CDs.”

“I borrowed them.”

“Oh yeah? When you planning to bring ‘em back?”

“Soon,” Russel shakes his head, unconvinced. “Like I was saying, Russ is my hip-hop expert.”

“And you're my metal guru.”

“Correct, what's your point?”

Russel looks unimpressed over the rim of his pint glass. “I'm saying I like a lot of music, Murdoc, not just hip-hop.” Russel pauses momentarily, then admits, “though I do like a lot of hip-hop.”

“What sort of stuff?” Stuart asks.

“Lots of stuff man, how about you?”

“Oh, I don't know much hip-hop, but I like what I know,” Stuart casts around and Murdoc looks ready to ridicule him. “A Tribe Called Quest?”

Russel and Murdoc share a look, Russel seemingly impressed, Murdoc stunned. Murdoc turns to consider Stuart and Stuart half expects him to kiss him again. His stomach lurches.

Russel puts his elbows on the table and settles into an impressively detailed yet succinct history of hip-hop. For the most part Murdoc seems content to listen and smoke, though he occasionally offers a correction, which is invariably disputed by Russel and, grudgingly, retracted by Murdoc. A Tribe Called Quest leads to De La Soul leads to The Pharcyde. By the time Russel finishes sipping his water he’s put his number in Stuart's mobile, labelling it “Russ”, and told Stuart to give him a buzz when he's next in Soho so he can lend him some CDs “to get him started”. Water finished, Russel announces he's got to head back to Belsize Park before his aunt and uncle start worrying.

“Good to see you again Stu,” Russel says. “Murdoc.” Murdoc gives Russel a daring look. “I also saw you.”

The pair stare at each other before laughing, Murdoc abrasively, Russel with a low rumble.

Russel's departure inspires Stuart to consult the train timetable in his pocket, then his watch. He's running out of trains before they stop for the night. Spotting him, Murdoc stands up from the table and walks them outside where the cool air sobers Stuart up. Murdoc walks with him to Oxford Circus, explaining it's on his way. They sit side by side on the tube, Murdoc with his legs spread wide enough that one presses, warm, against Stuart’s.  

“So you like metal,” Stuart offers when Murdoc seems content to just watch their reflections in the opposite window of the tube carriage. Murdoc pointedly plays with a ring shaped like a pentagram.

“A bit,” he deadpans.

“Don't know anything about metal, just Metallica and that.”

“I'll have to serenade you sometime,” Murdoc says. Stuart knows it's sarcastic but the choice of words strikes him as odd. “I'm not loaded like Russ though, so you're not borrowing my albums. You'll have to come ‘round mine if you fancy listening to some Megadeth.”

At the tube barriers, Murdoc jumps over and Stuart ferrets around in his pockets until he finds his ticket. Murdoc gives him a judgmental look. The train isn't due for ten minutes so they linger awkwardly by the platform. Stuart eventually snaps, doubt buoyed by all the beer.

“What if it was a fluke?” Murdoc considers him, expression neutral. “It was just karaoke. I don't know anything about writing music or performing music and I don't like metal, I just-”

Murdoc raises a halting hand.

“Pot. Shut your gob.”

Stuart clamps his mouth shut and Murdoc studies his lips for a moment.

“Don't gimme that bollocks about it being a fluke. If you want me to piss off just tell me to,” Stuart hears his train pull into the platform behind him. “Then I'll leave you to the high octane thrills of the service sector.”

“Don't be like that,” Stuart frowns.

“Then don't be like that,” Murdoc counters, jerking his head at Stuart. “Quit your mardying.” Stuart understands the word from context. “And gimme the phone back if you're not interested.”

Stuart stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and keeps them there. Murdoc smiles, slow and smug.

“Get going,” Murdoc turns to leave. “And keep your eyes peeled for a guitarist.”

“We need a rehearsal space.”

Murdoc pivots on his heel and glances back at Stuart.

“What?”

“If we're gonna do this, we need somewhere to practice and write.”

“How about your place?”

“My dad needs the garage for the caravan. What about your place?”

“Your train's leaving,” Murdoc smiles, clearly watching it over Stuart's shoulder. Stuart hears the wheels on the rails and doesn't bother turning.

“There's another in half an hour.” The last one of the night. They walk to the station entrance and sit on the steps. Murdoc lights a cigarette and offers it to Stuart, who surprises himself by taking it. He takes a drag and grimaces at the taste.

“Buy your own then,” Murdoc mutters. “There's no room at mine, I live in a bedsit.”

“Could we hire somewhere?”

“With what money?”

“Dunno. The money I'll make working in the high octane service sector?”

Murdoc isn't listening, shaking his head as he says, “doesn't make sense, paying two lots of rent.”

“What d'you do, anyway? Sell drugs?” Stuart asks. Murdoc looks unimpressed.

“M'just guessing. What do you do?”

“I'm between jobs,” Murdoc offers enigmatically. “But things can only get better.”

Stuart snorts a laugh at that.

“You could just stay at mine tonight,” Murdoc says. Stuart's sober enough now that the suggestion makes him feel strange.

“I better get back, my mum'll be wondering where I am.”

“Suit yourself.” They smoke a while in silence. “Who'll play me in the movie?”

Stuart laughs.

“We're already casting the biopic?” Murdoc just smiles expectantly so Stuart tries to remember the names of actors. “Ray Winstone.”

Murdoc lets out a hideous laugh and Stuart grins.

“Uncanny. They'd get Leonardo Di fucking Caprio for you.”

Stuart's glad he got around to watching Titanic.  He puffs up a little at the comparison.

“He better get practising his Crawley accent then.”

A few minutes later Murdoc casts a look over his shoulder and nods at the platform.

“Your train's back. Better get on it this time.”

Stuart stubs out his cigarette and gets ungracefully to his feet.

“What about the rehearsal space?”

“Leave it with me, face ache,” Murdoc says, walking down the steps as Stuart heads up them. Stuart turns and watches him disappear into the underground station before jogging to his platform.

When he's on the train, Stuart opens the address book on his mobile and clicks around until he finds the option to delete “Me”. He looks out the window and sees the train carriage reflected back at him around his haunted looking face. He closes the address book and plays Snake instead.

He remembers his mum has the day off when he heads downstairs the next morning. He joins her on the sofa and she puts down her magazine and gives him a beaming smile.

“Did you have a good time in London darling?”

“Yeah, really good thanks.” She looks at his eyes but he can tell she's struggling to read his expression so he smiles wider to compensate.

“It's so good to see you feeling more yourself,” she says, giving his arm a squeeze. “You've been so lucky Stu.”

“I have.”

He's conscious at this close range of the lingering smell of cheap tobacco in his hair and the beer that's he sweated out in the night and he regrets not showering yet. He can't decide if her nostrils twitch or if he just imagines it.

Stuart's thoughts swell to fill the silence. If he's well enough to get home after midnight, well enough to drink however many beers with some weird bloke on coke, he's well enough to get a job. His mum would probably like it if he got some job that involved working from home, away from fast moving vehicles or trees with rotten branches. Maybe he could stuff envelopes with mailshots for office supplies companies or Farmfoods or something. The thought is somehow exhausting and he leans against Rachel for a moment with a murmur “love you mum”. She gives his hair a quick kiss.

“What're you up to today? Going ‘round Mike's?”

“I think I'll go into town, see if anyone's hiring.”

“Don't overdo it. You could always look for something part time to begin with.”

“Yeah.”

He gets the bus, pops in each shop on the high street until he's got some application forms and telephone numbers. With his (slightly exaggerated) retail experience, enthusiasm and insistence that there's nothing actually wrong with him, he just looks a bit weird, it doesn't take long for him to get a seasonal job at Woolworths. His mum is happy, his dad is happy because his mum is happy and Mike and the lads demand free pick and mix.

Stuart leaves plenty of leeway before his first shift, getting the bus half an hour before the one he'd normally get. He listens to The Low End Theory and wanders up and down the high street to kill time, Walkman in hand. When Scenario has finished playing, he pulls off his headphones, wraps them around the Walkman and stands in front of Woolworths for a moment, looking up at the sign until his eyes lose focus and the letters blur.

Walking inside, Stuart reaches under his mobile in his pocket for his swipe card for the staff door. He wonders if he's pressed something on the number pad because his mobile starts ringing. Pulling it out he sees “Me” on the screen and drops the swipe card as he fumbles to accept the call.

“How soon can you get to Essex?” Murdoc asks.

Stuart doesn't think to ask where exactly in Essex.

“By lunchtime,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuart missed a lot of major events while he was out of it. He probably still hears the occasional “new” song from late 1997/1998. Also remember when the internet was barely a thing and you had to ask people for information or not know about stuff? Just me?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading - feel free to come say hey on my tumblr if you'd like (elapsed-spiral).


	18. 2013 - 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "C'mon honey, we're all going down-down-down-downtown, down-downtown" 
> 
> Featuring emotional support humans, The Evangelist and d i s t o r t i o n. 
> 
> Warnings: substance abuse, suicidal thoughts and actions, significant mental health issues and internalised stigma around having such issues. Some people may find this chapter distressing, so please message me if you would like more detailed content warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the gap between this chapter and chapter 15 - my hand was forced by the delays to the Free Murdoc chats. Now that Phase 5 is over I'm cooking on gas once again. Time to finish this fic.

"Wow," Leo says.

“I know.”

“It's huge.”

“Yeah,” Stuart agrees smugly.

Leo's gaze keeps panning up Madison Square Garden.

“You played here? Gorillaz played here?”

“Yeah, a few years ago.”

“What was it like?”

“Better than sex,” Stuart says, knee jerk. His grin falters when he sees how Leo's eyebrows lift. “Sorry, stupid joke. I just mean it's, what, twenty thousand people.”

“Twenty thousand?”

Stuart eyeballs the arena again.

“Yeah, I reckon it's around twenty. Twenty thousand people screaming at you for two hours straight.” He gets goosebumps just thinking about it. “Nothing like it.”

Leo looks at a loss so Stuart gives him an enthusiastic smile. “Back on track now though, yeah? Grand Central, right? Then Rockefeller?”

“If you want to, you haven't suggested much that you'd like to do.”

“It's your trip, L. Your choice, my treat.”

Leo's smile slopes. “I'd rather it was our choice.”

“Grand Central sounds great,” Stuart insists. He looks up the route on his phone and they start heading up 7th Avenue. He takes the opportunity to check Twitter and sees there's no update from Murdoc. Leo takes his other hand, gives it a squeeze, and Stuart feels compelled to shove his phone back in his pocket.

Leo asks him if he wants to go to Times Square or Macy's later to do some Christmas shopping and Stuart nods along, still thinking about Twitter. He's so unaccustomed to Murdoc being silent, he can't figure out his meaning. The only explanation Stuart can come up with is that Murdoc, like the rest of the internet, has somehow gleaned that he's here with his boyfriend, despite him posting no photos of Leo.

Stuart puts his thoughts aside when they get to Grand Central. At Leo's suggestion they try to take some selfies but the low level lighting inside makes them look orange. They carry on to Rockefeller and lean against the wall surrounding the ice skating rink, admiring the outsized tree studded with multicoloured lights and the skaters circling below. A teenage girl asks for a photo. Leo steps out of range and looks at his phone while Stuart tells her he's well, thanks her for asking, wishes her a good rest-of-her-trip and sends her on her way. When she's gone, he pulls his hat down over his hair and stands shoulder to shoulder with Leo.

“I think you need more than a hat if you want to be incognito,” Leo teases.

“You saying I'm-”

“Unique looking.”

“I was going to say “a looker”,” Stuart says, chuckling when Leo looks playfully unimpressed.

“Have you thought about getting your teeth done? That might help you keep a lower profile.”

“Not really. I sing fine without them.”

Leo slips his arm around Stuart's waist. A few people look but quickly lose interest.

“You're a looker either way,” Leo jokes and Stuart leans into him. “Do you want to skate?”

“I don't fancy my chances staying on my feet. I just about managed regular skating a couple of years ago but ice skating's a push.”

“That's alright, it's nice just watching.” They look at the skaters in silence for a time before Leo carries on. “The way you talked about Madison Square Garden made it sound like you'd want to do it again. You know, write another album, tour.”

Stuart makes a noncommittal noise.

“I just think it's interesting,” Leo says. “You don't need the money, so you'd be doing it because you wanted to.”

“I don't know how to do anything else. I've had two jobs in my life. Saturday boy at Norm's and frontman.”

“That's a bit weird.”

Stuart gives Leo a broad grin.

“It's a lot weird,” he agrees, perhaps too enthusiastically if Leo's knitted brow is anything to go by. “But I love it. Not all the time and not always, but when I do, I love it.”

Leo looks lost in thought. Stuart's fingers itch to take out his phone. He feels a thrill when he comes up with a reason to.

“Shall we get lunch?” he asks. “I can look up some options.”

Leo gives him a smile and a kiss.

“Sounds good to me.”

*

“And, just like that, wham, I could freeze people with my mind.”

“Right.”

“Exactly like in Mortal Kombat.”

“Yeah.”

“Actual, literal superpowers Limey.”

“Great.”

“Suck my dick, you're not listening to a word I'm saying.”

Murdoc's head snaps up.

“What's that about dicks?”

“Man you're predictable,” Ace sighs. “It's like talking to a teenager, you're always on your cell phone.”

“Stuart’s here,” Murdoc offers reluctantly.

Ace looks at him blankly. “Who?”

“2D.”

“Cool, call him.”

“No.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he can call me.”

Ace gives him a tired look. “You like beating yourself up about stuff, don’tcha?

“I think he's here with someone,” Murdoc side steps.

“Dude, this is Every Breath You Take territory.”

“I'm not stood outside his bedroom window.” Murdoc opens 2D's Twitter and slides his phone to Ace across the kitchen table. “Look. Two coffee cups at Starbucks, two shadows at Central Park. The fans reckon so too.”

“Okay so he's got a friend with him.” Ace spots Murdoc's irritated look. “Or a boyfriend. So what? You've known the guy for forever, go say hey.”

“If he says hey first.”

“It's like you're punishing yourself for D's problems.” Ace picks up the phone and scrolls. “Why?”

Murdoc studies the dregs of coffee in his mug.

“What did you do?” Ace asks. Murdoc meets his eyes wearily.

“Something terrible.”

Ace studies him a moment longer, brow knitted, before turning his attention back to the phone.

“You gotta talk to him Limey. Not this cryptic tweeting botha yous have been doing. Old school talking: his face and your face, close proximity, yanno?”

“Sounds awful,” Murdoc says to be contrary.

“Huh, D likes New York Dolls? Wouldn'ta figured.”

Murdoc's eyes widen when Ace starts tapping out a message. He lunges across the table but Ace leans out of reach.

“Whoa, easy, I'm not gonna hit send, I'm not an animal. I just had an idea. Here,” Ace hands the phone back to Murdoc. He reads the unsent tweet and recognises it as part of Union Square's chorus.

“Did I get the right number of ‘down's in downtown?” Ace asks. Murdoc chuckles appreciatively.

“Am I that obvious a Waits fan?”

“Like you've gotta ask. Send it. Go meet his ass in Union Square.”

“Who's saying he'll meet me there? Like you said, it's all cryptic bollocks.”

“Why else is he in New York?”

“Holiday with mystery boyfriend?”

Ace gives him a look.

“Dude, you don't even believe that.”

Murdoc's thumb hovers over the Tweet button.

“What happens if he turns up with the bloody boyfriend?”

Ace shrugs. “Fistfight? You gotta break this stalemate. Blame me if it doesn't work, just do something.”

“How long's it take to get to Union Square from here?”

“Twenty minutes, max. Just take the L train.”

Murdoc nods. He presses the button and stands up from the table, heart hammering.

“Done.”

“Awesome. You need your emotional support human with you for this? I'm good with a switchblade if you need a second.”

“It's not a duel,” Murdoc scowls, rummaging under the settee cushions and unearthing his headphones.

“You don't know that.”

Murdoc tries and fails to keep from smiling.

“Can it Pesci, I'll take my chances.”

“Good luck Limey.”

Murdoc closes the apartment door behind him, puts on his headphones and sets Rain Dogs playing.

“Heave away boys,” he says in unison with Waits. He takes the stairs two at a time.

*

They decide to try out a vegetarian place in Korea Town that gets good reviews. Leo's never had Korean but the cold weather's given Stuart a craving for Bibimbap. Once they've plotted their route, Stuart surreptitiously opens Twitter. He keeps his expression blank while his heart races.

_C'mon honey, we're all going down-down-down-downtown, down-downtown_

There's no photo accompanying Murdoc's tweet so Stuart's at a loss what he's driving at. Stuart feels how Leo's watching him and reluctantly closes Twitter and reopens Maps, phone clutched so tight his knuckles turn white.

The restaurant is beautifully decorated with dark wood, orange walls and tables sunk into the floor. Leo is puzzled when they're asked to take off their shoes but Stuart thinks nothing of it after living with Noodle and years of touring.

Leo studies his menu bemusedly and Stuart sets his phone face down beside his napkin. He reaches for it seconds later and Leo looks over his menu at him. Stuart pockets it and awkwardly climbs up from his seat.

“Gonna go to the loo. I'll just have water if they take drinks orders, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pads across the restaurant through the door to the toilets. He steps inside one individual toilet, locks the door and pulls out his phone, tapping the lyric into Google so quickly autocorrect has to figure out what he's driving at. He rolls his eyes when he sees it's a Tom Waits song. He clutches his phone tighter when he sees the title.

Union Square.

He opens Maps with shaking hands and enters Chuseok and Union Square station. He sinks onto the toilet lid when he sees it's only ten minutes away by subway.

“Shit,” he whispers. He checks the time of the tweet and sees that it's already an hour old but he instinctively knows that Murdoc will be there, waiting. Stuart can see him, in his new striped t-shirt, sat on a bench, smirking and expectant. In his mind's eye, Murdoc's mouth opens and he tries to make out what he's saying. He jolts at the rap at the door.

“Stu? Are you alright?”

Stuart feels suddenly cold at the question. He grips his phone tighter in his hands.

“I don't feel well.”

“What?”

“I think I might have a stomach bug.”

“Have you been sick?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry Stu," Leo says, voice full of sympathy. "I'll get our coats and shoes and we can go back to the hotel and-”

“No,” Stuart reluctantly gets up and opens the door. “You should stay, get lunch. I can go by myself, it's fine.”

“I don't want to leave you if you're unwell. Do you think you ate something that didn't agree with you or-”

“Maybe it's contagious,” Stuart insists, hearing the desperation in his own voice. “You should keep your distance.”

Leo's expression switches suddenly from concerned to suspicious. Stuart returns his look uneasily.

“Where are you really going?”

“The hotel. L, I feel really ill and I'm just trying to stop you catching whatever I've got by keeping my distance.”

Leo looks aghast and Stuart can't bear it. He studies his sock clad feet.

“He's here,” Leo's voice hitches. “Oh my god, he's here, isn't he?”

*

Murdoc has only got to Hang Down Your Head by the time he gets to Union Square station. A sucker for an entrance, he skips ahead to Union Square and swaggers up the steps in time with the music.

He surveys the square and is disappointed, if unsurprised, by the lack of prostitutes and undercover cops. He follows the circuitous path, eyes peeled for blue, keeping pace with the beat.

When he's back where he started he takes a seat on a low wall facing the subway exit. People leave the station in ebbs and flows with the arrival of each train. He alternates between checking Twitter and scanning the faces of everyone leaving the station while Waits growls in his ears.

*

“What are you talking about?” Stuart chokes out.

“Show me your phone.”

He grips it harder.

“No. L, I'm just feeling sick and trying to stop you getting sick too, what's wrong with that?”

“What are you even going to do?” Leo's voice seems to change quality, revolted in a way Stuart's never heard before. “When you get wherever you're going, what are you even going to do?”

Stuart stumbles over his words.

“Jesus, that's why you wanted to come to New York,” Leo says, realisation evidently dawning. He laughs mirthlessly. “I'm so stupid, of course that's why.”

“No, I just wanted to see New York. I like New York, I-”

“You said it was for me,” Leo's voice is flinty. “I hate cities, Stu. I came here for you and you're… I can't believe this.”

Leo turns and Stuart follows him back to their table where they sit in silence. He feels the eyes of the wait staff and their fellow diners trained on them. Stuart attempts to study his menu. Leo addresses the table when he speaks.

“I'm going home. Wait until,” he checks his watch. “two before you go back to the hotel. I'll be out by then.”

“Leo, please,” when their eyes meet, Stuart knows there's no point in begging him to reconsider. “Let me pay for your flight. Least I can do.”

“I don't want anything from you,” Leo says curtly. They study each other for a moment, Leo's expression sliding from sad to angry and back again. “You know how I said when I saw you on the telly, I'd just think about Miss Jones’ class when we were little?”

Stuart gives a feeble nod, closing his menu. Leo's fingers slip under his glasses to wipe away a few tears.

“When I see you on telly now, all I'll think about is this,” he says, words catching. Stuart watches him leave.

*

Murdoc gets up from his lookout when the cold starts sinking into his bones. He does another turn of the square to warm up and studies the skeletal trees. He find himself concocting things to say.

_Figured out who we are without one another?_

_Fancy meeting you here._

_Not interrupting your honeymoon, am I?_

When he's nearing the path's final bend his chest gets tight with anticipation. He's ready to see Stuart, phone held up to his face as he jabs out some snide text asking where he's gotten to.

Murdoc rounds the bend, breath held.

Nothing.

He takes his seat on the wall and checks the time on his phone: two hours since his tweet. 

Stuart's dumping Whoever He Is.

Stuart's lost.

Stuart's music taste is so shit he doesn't even get the reference.

The next time Murdoc starts shivering from the cold he gets up and heads inside Forever 21, receiving a bemused greeting from the chirpy member of staff manning the entrance. He makes his way through rails of tartan skirts and autumnal colour coats to the drabber, smaller menswear department upstairs. He toys with buying some gloves but decides against when that Ed Sheeran song about skag starts playing, making a beeline for the exit instead.

He makes his way back to his spot on the wall, checking his phone as he goes. No calls, no messages, no notifications. He opens Twitter and finds 2D's account is gone. He searches for 2D's handle. Nothing.

Murdoc slows to a halt, puts his phone away and looks around Union Square as though for the first time. He takes in the tourists, locals, business people, homeless people, cars, taxis, buses, bins, litter, bikes, dogs, lampposts. The detail builds and builds, accelerating. He screws up his face, eyes closed tight and takes a breath before heading for the Canarsie bound subway entrance.

He stands at the far end of the platform, waiting for the L train with the toes of his boots touching the edge of the yellow ribbon running along the floor. A train arrives, blowing his fringe about as it pulls in. People disembark and he shuffles further from the doors to avoid getting in their way. The train departs.

Minutes pass. Another train arrives, blowing his fringe, the red glow of the L on the front of the train staying with him like the flash of a camera. People disembark. The train departs. Minutes pass. Murdoc looks down at the track, dark and grubby. His fringe blows about as the train pulls in, inches from his head.

He feels eyes on him and looks up frantically. When he spots the man on the opposite platform, he covers his face with his hands.

*

Stuart sits at the table a few minutes longer, the wait staff studying him with obvious interest. He fumbles a couple of fifty dollar bills out of his wallet and onto the table before making his way to the door. He toes his trainers back on, slips on his coat and stands by the kerb. He stares down E 32nd Street, towards the subway. He turns around and walks towards W 32nd Street instead, eyes trained on the ground, bumping shoulders with people coming towards him. When he hits Fifth Avenue, he heads uptown.

*

“What are you doing?” Ace asks softly when he's reached Murdoc's platform. Murdoc pulls his hands away from his face and stares at the track again.

“He didn't come.” Ace's expression falls and Murdoc wishes he could either smack him or tumble back onto the track. He grits his teeth in an approximation of a grin. “He deleted his Twitter.”

Ace nods, forehead furrowed.

“Let's go back to Bushwick.”

Murdoc lets Ace guide him onto the next train. They sit in silence, Ace shooting him the occasional glance. They only speak again when they're back in the apartment, Murdoc on the sofa, Ace sat at the kitchen table.

“I'm sorry man,” Ace offers. Murdoc shrugs, taking off his leather jacket and draping it over the back of the settee.

“Guess I know the band's done this time. Good to have that finality.”

“Maybe he's having a social media detox.”

Murdoc gives him a withering look.

“Can you millennials hear the shite you come out with?”

Ace bristles.

“I'm just saying it's not worth throwing yourself in front of the L train over. Let people help you.”

Murdoc can feel himself spiralling again so he goes ahead and leans into it. He yanks his phone out his jacket pocket, opening the phonebook.

“What’re you doing old man?” Ace asks, dropping onto the settee beside him. “Need me to show you how WhatsApp works?”

“Fuck off. I'm having a social media detox,” Murdoc sneers, holding out his phone so Ace can read the phonebook entry.

““What Now”? What?”

“That's D,” Murdoc explains, clicking on the options menu, then Delete. “Was D.”

Ace frowns.

“That's like a symbolic thing, right? I mean if you've got messages from him the number'll still be in there-”

Murdoc gives a wordless yell that makes Ace visibly start. He stalks over to the window, yanks it open and tosses his phone into the lightwell. There's a satisfying crunch when it hits the ground.

“Jeez, okay, um-”

“Stop helping me,” Murdoc grits out. “Give me a minute.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Leave you here, surrounded by guitar strings, bedsheets and belts?” Ace is barely joking. “And, like a buttload of cocaine.”

“Please,” Murdoc grits out. Ace's eyes widen at the word. “I promise not to off myself. I love myself too much for that.”

Ace still looks unconvinced but nods reluctantly.

“Alright. I'm gonna give you an hour to cool down. If you kill yourself while I'm gone I'll fucking,” Ace hastily crosses himself, “kill you all over again. Capische?”

Murdoc nods and Ace grabs his keys and wallet, shooting one last look at Murdoc before he leaves. Murdoc lies down on the settee, staring at the ceiling with his arms held stiffly at his sides. His head still swims with the things he’d say to Stuart.

_Deleting Twitter? Bit bloody dramatic don't you think? How’re you gonna score pills and dates now eh? That boyfriend better be a fucking fantastic shag-_

He can feel imagined responses swirling in his brain, practically hears Stuart's voice say them. He closes his eyes against it. The next thing he knows, there's something cold touching his chest.

“Hey.”

Murdoc cracks open his eyes and sees Ace is handing him a 7-Eleven cup. He takes it, glancing inside at the day-glo blue slush. Ace waggles a second cup at him.

“Pepsi flavour, if you wanna trade.”

“Decisions, decisions,” Murdoc jokes but he goes ahead and swaps. Drinking something so sweet threatens to make him nauseous but he sits up and takes a sip regardless. He shuffles and makes room for Ace to sit. Ace joins him and rummages in his jacket pocket before holding something small out to Murdoc, pinched between his thumb and index finger. Murdoc recognises it as a SIM card.

“Getting a new number is a hassle,” Ace offers. “And putting all those contacts back in your phonebook? Fuhgeddaboudit.”

Murdoc's almost certain Ace chooses the word to try and make him laugh. He succeeds.

“Thanks." Murdoc pockets the SIM. He gives up on the drink after a few sips but Ace has almost polished his off when he speaks again, soft enough to ignore.

“I'm glad you didn't do anything stupid Murdoc. I'd miss you if you did.”

Murdoc grips his cup tighter, blinks hard. He looks at Ace, opens his mouth but lacks the vocabulary. He nods instead and Ace nods back, before taking Murdoc's cup with a mutter of “if you're not gonna drink that-”.

*

Stuart winds up in Times Square. He weaves through the crowds, stumbles in and out of shops. He goes to the Hershey's store, numbed by the bright colours and multi buy discounts and loads up a basket with Reese's Pieces multipacks. He pulls out his phone when he's paid and calls Mike.

“What's your address?”

“What?”

“I got you and the girls Reese's Pieces but I don't have your address to post them.”

“I thought I texted it you when you came ‘round for dinner?”

“Oh.” Stuart watches a gaggle of street performers including a Mickey Mouse knock off with a melted looking face and a gaunt Minion. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

“You alright Stu? Where's Leo?”

The light from the billboards threatens to ramp up his headache. Stuart makes a mental note to set up another prescription when he can.

“He's going home,” Stuart says, sounding vaguely dazed to his own ear.

“Your holiday's not over yet, is it?” Stuart doesn't respond. “Is everything alright?”

Stuart pulls the phone away, thumb hovering over the End Call button. He can hear Mike calling his name and puts the phone back to his ear.

“We broke up.”

“What?”

“Didn't work out.”

“Stu, what-”

“I fucked things up.” Stuart's words catch and then he's crying. Some nearby tourists look alarmed so he scrubs at his face and starts walking up Broadway. “I'm sorry, I fucked everything up.”

There's silence while Mike thinks.

“How did you fuck it up?”

“I-” Stuart can't get the words out, doesn't even know what they would be. He wipes away each fresh stream of tears, taking ragged breaths and ignoring people's stares as he strides along, the Hershey's bag swinging from his wrist.

“Stu? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he gasps out. “Sorry. Are you at work? I'll hang up-”

“No. Stu,” Mike's voice takes on an authoritative quality Stuart's only heard rarely, like on nights out when things were about to kick off. They'd joked that it was his bouncer voice. “You're not hanging up. What happened?”

“I can't say.”

“Why not?”

The words tumble out of Stuart. “Because it's bad. God, what am I even doing?”

“Murdoc's there, isn't he?” Mike interjects and Stuart's knees feel ready to buckle. He clamps his free hand over his mouth to silence any noises that might escape him.

“Have you been seeing Murdoc behind Leo's back?” Mike asks and he's never sounded so disappointed.

“No,” Stuart insists, voice thick with snot and tears. “No, Mike, I wasn't cheating on him. I wouldn't do that, I swear.”

“Then what? Stuart, I don't understand any of this. I don't get what's happening.”

“I… I just… I was just going to meet up with him.”

“With Murdoc?”

“Yeah.”

Mike sighs.

“That's why you went to New York? Christ. Did Leo punch you?"

“No.”

“Lucky. Stu,” Stuart almost drops his phone when he hears how choked Mike suddenly sounds. “When the two of you recorded that album, disappeared and that… Why didn't anyone hear from you?”

Stuart's ready to offer his usual spiel but Mike adds “did you want to be there?”

“What?” Stuart asks hoarsely.

"Did you want to go to that island, wherever it was, or did Murdoc make you?”

They're silent for a time. Stuart can only sob when he hears Mike murmur “fucking hell Stu”.

It occurs to Stuart to defend Murdoc, to defend himself. Instead, he comes to a halt behind a restaurant, leans against a dumpster and cries.

“You need to get help.” Mike's words are edged with desperation. “Stuart, you need to get fucking help. Get on the first plane home.”

“No, I want to stay here,” Stuart says, surprising himself.

“Stu, I don't want to open the paper and,” Mike's voice quavers, “and read you've-”

“I wouldn't. I won't. I promise.”

“You need help. This isn't normal. God, what about your folks?” Mike asks, sounding freshly horrified. “I can't handle them coming down here, asking where you are. It was bad enough back then when I didn't even know but if I know where you are, I can't not say.”

“I'll ring them. I just… I can't pretend I can live like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I can live in Crawley and just date Leo and-”

“You sound like a total wanker right now Stu.”

“I know, but you wanted me to stop lying and pretending, so I'm telling you,” Stuart snaps. It's the angriest conversation he can remember ever having had with Mike. It makes his legs tremble. “I'm not normal. I don't want to be. I want-”

“Murdoc?”

“Maybe.”

“This isn't right."

“I don't want to be normal,” Stuart repeats. “I'm better than normal.”

Mike laughs humourlessly.

“Yeah? Guess I better leave you to it then, go back to my ‘normal’ job-”

Stuart cringes.

“That's not what I meant. Mike, I'm sorry, I am, I-”

“I know, I know, you mad sod. Stu, I love you.”

Stuart can't remember Mike ever having said it before. He feels a fresh wave of guilt at the words.

“I love you too, and Laura and the kids. I don't want to lose you, or mum or dad or-”

“So go to therapy,” Mike interrupts. “Proper therapy because fuck knows what you were doing over here if you're stalking your mad boyfriend in New York right now.”

There's a weird twist in Stuart's stomach at the word ‘boyfriend’.

“Do proper therapy and get better.”

“Okay.”

“And call your mum. Weekly. And your dad.”

“Okay.”

“And me. Every Sunday, nine pm sharp. Because,” Mike falters, “‘cause you're my best mate and I actually like hearing from you more than once every five years y’know?”

Stuart laughs wetly.

“Promise me?”

“I promise. I promise.”

Mike joins in laughing, sounding exhausted.

“Fucking hell Stu, you always did blub a lot but I never knew it was contagious.”

Naturally, Stuart combines crying harder with laughing harder.

“M'sorry Mike. I am.”

“I know you are. But I'd rather you got better.”

“I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye to the girls before I left.”

“You sure you don't want to come home?”

“No. I need to reset myself. Crawley's not home, that's not who I am.”

“So who are you? Stu the Celebrity?”

“I'm 2D,” he says and he wonders if this is how AA meetings feel. “I'm 2D and I'm a frontman and I'm a bit of a bellend but maybe I could be a sane bellend if I tried.”

“That's the spirit. Bit of humility.”

“Humble as shit me.”

They laugh again.

“So, let's recap shall we?” Mike says. “What are you gonna do?”

“I'm gonna get a proper therapist.”

“Good. And?”

“Call you and mum and dad once a week.”

“Full marks. And if you ever need to talk to someone, call me. Middle of the night here, doesn't matter. Just call me. No more bollocking about. Give it to me straight, 2D, I'm a simple man, I don't like bullshit.”

“You don't actually have to call me 2D.”

“Good. No offence but 2D’s kinda crap.”

“Wasn't my idea, you can blame Paula for that.” Stuart rubs his face on his sleeve, sniffs to clear his nose. “Thank you though.”

“You're welcome. How many bags of Reese's did you get?”

“Three massive multipack things.”

“Think you owe me another after all this.” Stuart starts to agree but Mike laughs warmly. “I'm kidding, you silly sod. Look, I better go unless you need me?”

“No, I think I'm okay,” Stuart says. He does feel lighter, though it's possible he's just lightheaded from the crying.

“Good. Where you gonna go? Gonna buy some swanky apartment in Manhattan?”

“No. I've gone off New York. Think I'll go to the airport and check out my options.”

“Happy travels Pot.”

“Thank you Mike.”

“You're welcome mate. Fuck me, I need a stiff drink after that,” Mike mutters as he ends the call.

Stuart wipes his hand over his face one last time, breathing out raggedly. He blinks, testing whether he'll burst into tears again. When he can trust himself not to, he looks up the nearest post office. He buys a box for all the sweets and loses himself in the mundanity of writing out Mike's address and queuing.

Stuart’s unsurprised to find Leo's kept his word when he gets back to the hotel, the pristine room scrubbed of any trace of him. Stuart throws his clothes into his suitcase and wheels it to reception, handing in his key without explanation and hailing a cab to LaGuardia. When he gets to Departures he stands, hand resting on the telescopic handle of his suitcase, and scans the board. His eyes fix on Detroit.

“Where to?” asks the taxi driver at Arrivals.

“Um.” Stuart googles “Gorillaz frontman overdose” but the top results don't include photos of the rave house. He finds one in his phone's photo gallery instead and shows it to the unimpressed looking driver. “Do you know where this is?”

The man studies it for a moment before shrugging. Stuart remembers Noodle showing him how to look up a photo's coordinates, a feature they'd used a few times to locate Murdoc over the years.

“220 Hendrie Street.”

The driver drops him at the side of the deserted road. Stuart walks up to the weatherbeaten For Sale sign, squints at the faded number and dials.

_2014_

It clearly doesn't come as a surprise to Ace when Murdoc announces he's heading back to England that evening. Their writing sessions have eased off and Ace's smuggling excursions have multipled. As the days lengthen, Murdoc finds the prospect of another aimless summer in the city unbearable.

“What’re you missing?”

“Brown sauce, everyone ignoring each other and people not using their horns all damn day.” Murdoc fishes out his shiny new phone and scrolls through his phonebook. He'd never paid attention to whether he was saving numbers to his SIM or to his handset and while his contact list is relatively decimated, he still finds the numbers he's looking for. He texts the details to Ace, who reads them aloud, puzzled.

“Carlos Benito and Pedro Lapetzo?”

“Pedro prefers “Shitbag”,” Murdoc says. “Prefers's a bit strong; he answers to it.”

“Right. And who are these people?”

“Drug runners.” Ace waits for Murdoc to elaborate. “Met them when I was in jail in Mexico for passing prostitutes bad cheques. Long time ago now but they've got some quality coke so we’ve kept in touch. Nice to cut out the middle man, y'know? Sure they'd be interested in having a distributor on the East Coast.”

Ace makes to speak but Murdoc cuts across him quietly.

“I know it's not your life's ambition to sell coke but I also know you've gotta do what you've gotta do, especially when you won't let me give you a big bag of cash.”

“I don't like owing people for anything,” Ace mutters.

Murdoc reluctantly remembers the “massively reduced rent” he paid for his room in the two up, two down in Longton and Jacob's insistence that he should be grateful he wasn't out on the streets, waiting for a council house he'd never get.

“I get it. So, since I've no longer got a band,” Murdoc speeds up to override any protest from Ace, “I thought I'd give you their numbers. Drugs're like anything: it's all about who you know. Better to do some distribution for those shitheads than keep trying to run with the guys you were using when you lived in California. I'll put in a good word."

Ace smiles wryly.

“This is the most Murdoc leaving gift you coulda given me.”

“Glad I'm predictable,” Murdoc smirks. He nods to El Diablo and a suitcase in one corner. “A bloke'll be ‘round to collect those. Don't you dare touch El Diablo, I'll know." 

“I promise.”

“Yeah, that's what worries me.”

After he's put on his jacket and taken the spare set of apartment keys out of his pocket and put them on the table, Ace gives him a firm, clasping hug. Murdoc can only suffer through it since his arms are pinned to his sides.

“This was alright,” Ace says.

“Don't make me smack you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ace slaps his back when he finally releases him. “Go a little easier on yourself Limey, you're not that bad.”

“You've got no idea what you're talking about but it's a lovely sentiment, Yank. I've got to get to the airport.”

“Alright. Oh, and call 2-” Murdoc slams the apartment door before Ace can finish his sentence. He's climbing in a cab when Ace's head pokes out of an upper window.

“CALL D! AND REMEMBER TO GIVE ME MY STINKING ROYALTIES IF YOU RECORD ANY OF MY STUFF!”

Murdoc winds down the window to yell “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU AGAIN?”, alarming his driver and nearby pigeons. Ace's obnoxiously nasal laughter lodges in Murdoc's brain as the taxi joins the traffic.

*

Stuart mostly keeps his promise to Mike. He rings his parents on Fridays, calls Mike on Sundays. There's occasions when he loses track of the time, or the day - because he's writing or clubbing - but never for long enough to alarm anyone. He finds a therapist and while he never says the word “kidnap”, he makes it good and clear that he had a shit time of it on Plastic Beach. She agrees that the journaling is a good way to process his emotions so he keeps it up.

There's still things he lies about for an easy life. He tells everyone he's in Detroit because Gorillaz have a base there, says that Russel and Noodle are with him. He never embellishes, just lets people draw their own conclusions about what he's up to. It reminds him of talking to the press.

Stuart feels like a kid on summer holiday with lots of time and little to do. With no funfair to roam but an eye watering bank balance, he's free to dabble in whatever he fancies. He goes through a short reading phase, buying a Kindle and reading book after book on the criminal justice system, astrology and the Romans in a comically large font. Once he's read himself out, he gets a decent sized television and watches a load of sci-fi films.

He blames Jerry Goldsmith for his relapse. He gets engrossed in the scores for Alien and the original Star Trek movie and before the day's out he's bought a record player and reinstalled Spotify. For a while, Stuart sticks to listening to music but then his journal entries unravel from prose to something looser. He calls Jimmy and asks him to ship his synths, laptop and notebooks. It's barely a day after they've arrived before Stuart calls Jimmy again to ask him about basement remodelling.

“Home remodelling isn't exactly my specialty, D,” Jimmy jokes, clearly concerned for his sanity.

“I'm not building a man cave,” Stuart scowls.

“Then what are you building?”

“I'm building a studio.”

*

Months pass and Murdoc leaves El Diablo in its shipping crate in one corner of Wobble Street's living room. He unpacks his suitcase, sets his notebooks down on his bedside table and fails to open them again. He places a Tesco order for spirits and mixers and still doesn't need to replenish, months later. He deletes Twitter.

Murdoc takes long, rambling walks around Hammersmith and further afield. He tries walking through parks and cemeteries but prefers the familiarity of housing estates and high streets. He walks until he reaches a crossroads then considers his options and sets down his chosen turning. He walks in silence, letting thoughts come and go.

He thinks about looking for Carol's grave (like it'll do any good).

He thinks about contacting Madam Flesch (and restarts his Sunday sessions).

He thinks about the seas rising, taps running and suffocating plastic (and how everything's speeding up, fasterandfaster).

When the nights draw in, Murdoc spends more time holed up in Wobble Street. He tries talking aloud to siphon the thoughts out of his head. Every time he poses the room a question, he feels the threat of a reply inside him.

“Perhaps I should get a television, something to stare at.” Murdoc says as he pours himself his customary, lukewarm whiskey before bed, sat in one armchair. “I hear we're in a golden age of television.”

“You sound dead excited about that.”

He looks from his highball to the figure in the doorway, more interested than surprised. They're Stuart and Noodle and Carol, or how he imagines her at least. They look like they've drowned, slimey and sodden, jeans dripping a steady stream of water onto the hardwood floors. Like a poorly tuned television, they flicker, fade in and out. At their sharpest, they look like Stuart with a snub nose and thin mouth set in a blood and gravel encrusted face. Murdoc knows he's misremembering the hair as shorter and more styled than it was. It takes him a while to realise it looks more like Linda Evangelista's than anyone else's and Murdoc has no idea where his brain dredged that up from.

“Maybe I don't need a telly if you're here to keep me company.”

“Maybe not,” they agree in a voice full of static.

“I think I'm going slightly mad Linda,” Murdoc mutters, reaching for the whiskey bottle on the floor and pouring himself another, larger drink. The figure becomes more obviously Stuart and wrinkles its snubbed nose in disapproval.

“Not sure I'm a Linda.”

“I'm not calling you Stuart. I'm not that bonkers yet.”

“Y'sure about that?”

“Evan. You look more of an Evan.”

“I suppose.”

Murdoc downs his drink.

“I thought it was the speed that made me see stuff.”

“I thought you knew that was wishful thinking,” Evan counters, sitting down on the sofa and soaking the cushions with saltwater until they sag and drip onto the floor. “Reckon you're a little more than slightly mad.”

Murdoc holds his empty glass to his chest as his eyes fall shut in resignation.

“Least it's not Jacob this time,” they say in unison.

*

Stuart freezes when he sits down to the recording desk for the first time, unsure whether it's anticipation or fear that causes his stomach to clench. He opens the journal his Crawley therapist had encouraged him to keep and leafs through it, revisiting and revising old ideas. As he works, he remembers Mike's assessment of Plastic Beach as poncy and winds up scratching out half of what he's written.

When he's worked his way through the Crawley journal, Stuart opens the last of the boxes mailed by Jimmy and unearths a plain black notebook that smells of salt and rot. He eases open the cover and peels apart the pages. Whole thoughts are illegible, the writing spindly thanks to a combination of horror, codeine and weed. He sits down at his favourite synth, jaw tight and back rounded as he sets his hands on the keys. He remembers all the times he's sat like this, ready to write something from scratch. He can count on one hand the number of times he's come out the other side with a song to show for it that doesn't sound unfinished, doesn't get bumped off setlists, isn't the song people leave to get a drink during.

Stuart circles his shoulders to loosen up. He remembers Murdoc leaning against him, face sodden and stinking of rum.

“Free your mind Stu,” he says aloud, hands finding the first chord to try. “Your arse'll follow.”

*

In the end, Murdoc always comes back to music. After months of walking, drinking and trying to remember exactly what it was he did before tweeting and aimlessly scrolling online (speed, probably), Murdoc picks up a notebook from his bedside table. Thoughts fall out of him, haphazard and frantic. He writes until his hand cramps and the sun's risen.

“Tone's a bit different to the stuff you wrote with Ace,” Evan comments, sat beside him on the bed, drenching the covers. “Morose, but that's you all over.”

“S'weird, isn't it?” Murdoc asks around the end of his biro.

“What's weird?”

“How I pretended you weren't there when you were and now I'm imagining you are when you aren't.”

“They're going to take you away,” Evan agrees.

“Hee hee, ha ha.”

“Speaking of, you still haven't booked to go to a therapist.”

“I'll get on it,” Murdoc says, noncommittally. Evan laughs in a crackly approximation of Stuart's laugh. Murdoc feels a wash of shame at the realisation that, after almost twenty years, he still can't quite evoke Stuart's laugh.

“What's so funny Evan?”

“You can't even talk to me when you literally can't fuck it up.”

“No one's ever accused me of not talking enough before.”

“All style no substance.”

“What's the point of substance?”

Evan fades in and out as he shrugs.

“You might feel better if you did. But then you don't want to feel better, do you?”

Murdoc closes the notebook and runs a hand down his face. The skin feels thin nowadays, tissue-like.

“I'm going off you. Where's the silent spectre of Jacob when I need him?” Evan stays silent. “What'm I meant to say?”

“You could say how you feel. Why you're like this.”

“I feel fine, ta. And why's anyone like anything? What's it bloody matter?”

Evan watches him, eyes reflecting Murdoc's weary expression.

“I haven't fixed it,” Murdoc says to his reflection.

“Fixed what?”

“Stuart. The band. Russ told me to fix it and all I did was end the tour and get him to bugger off for good.”

“So fix it.”

“How? Doubt I can. Too little, too late.”

“But you could try.”

Murdoc thinks how to respond but doesn't. Instead, he goes online and looks up the number for The Priory. Evan's smiling when he hangs up, appointment made.

“You've got some dirty tricks, Evan.”

“I know, you self-congratulatory bastard.”

*

One of the things Stuart omits from his weekly updates is how much acid he's dropping. He has a couple of good trips and several not so good ones. During the worst trip, he drowns in a sea that he somehow knows is Murdoc, thick and black and filling him up like treacle.

Another time, he feels like the universe is expanding rapidly but it's alright because he's at the centre of it. He realises that Gorillaz isn't a band but an idea, that maybe Gorillaz is the universe. He draws convoluted spider diagrams all over the wall at the foot of his bed. He leaves them there when he's come down and studies them each night before he goes to sleep. A lot of it is bollocks - there's a section where he's just drawn odd, demon looking things and a part where he's written what looks like word “FEAST” surrounded by exclamation marks and arrows. He can't make sense of “FEAST” but it reminds him of the old ice cream lolly. He winds up dreaming of trips to the seaside, legs sticky with suntan lotion, eating chips soggy with vinegar.

During a particularly potent high, Stuart spends a day moseying around the house, convinced his leftover takeout is possessed by the spirits of former residents and talking to him. When he's come down, he finds he's used a bit of cardboard box and Sharpies to make what looks like a house sign reading “Spit Howz”. He gives himself the benefit of the doubt and orders a proper wooden sign for over the front door reading “Spirit House”. When he showers, he discovers that he's also attempted to trim his hair. He shaves his head rather than try and salvage the remaining mess and swears off acid for a while.  

_2015_

“They've given you pills? Must be bad,” Evan says when Murdoc steps inside Wobble Street. He'd also made similar comments at the pub and the corner shop but Murdoc only responds when he's behind closed doors.

“Nothing exciting. Side effects include constipation and weight gain.”

“Starting your Elvis in Vegas years?”

Murdoc smiles to himself as he walks downstairs into the studio. He sets Untitled Dancehall Song playing for the umpteenth time.

“This needs work,” Evan reminds him.

“It's got potential though,” Murdoc says, starting the recording over.

“It needs another vocal.”

“Well you would say that, wouldn't you?”

“He could be dead for all you know,” Evan says icily. The thought sits uneasily with Murdoc, rubbing the wrong way against his unconscious assumption that he'd just drop dead if Stuart ever died.

“Check what he's up to,” Evan needles. “You'll feel better.”

To save having the same conversation yet again, Murdoc googles Stuart. After wading through the usual media bilge, he finds Stuart Pot's One Stop Shop.

It looks like a SoundCloud with a mission statement. It's a clearly a project - a solo project - where Stuart plays mechanic and takes tracks, melodies and samples people send him and supes them up. “No job too big or small” the website proclaims, “all work guaranteed (musically, not legally)”.

“Give him coal, he'll make diamonds,” Evan says while Murdoc scrolls. There's an impressive number of uploads.

“You were so obnoxious in your twenties.”

“You loved it.”

“Luckily.”

Murdoc stops scrolling at “The Apprentice” and presses play. He tries to tamp down on his thoughts but they bubble out of Evan, who gurgles a watery laugh.

“You really reckon it's about you? He's not exactly your apprentice nowadays, is he?”

“It could be about Sir Alan for all I know. Piss off.”

“There's enough for an album here,” Evan points out, nonchalantly, and Murdoc feels himself frown. “You better stop him before he releases a solo album.”

“That's not very nice of you.”

“It'd be nice if you were nice, wouldn't it?” Evan goads. Murdoc makes his way upstairs to the kitchen and turns on the kettle. Evan sits on the counter, swinging his boat-like feet.

“No mention of his mystery boyfriend on that website,” Evan says.

“He's a middle aged man with a SoundCloud, not a teenage girl with a MySpace, not sure I can read into that.” Murdoc fills his Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle with water, humming The Apprentice while it percolates.

“Send him the dancehall song.”

Murdoc opens the box of pills and sets the blister pack on the counter.

“You're not contacting him first if he's put out an invitation to the whole world to send him stuff.”

He gives the noodles a stir then eats some, breathing through his mouth in a bid to cool them down.

“It's been five years since Plastic Beach.”

“Don't be ridicu-” Murdoc says as he chews, only to hesitate as he does the maths. “Over five years.”

“Four albums in seventeen years.” Evan says. “Not much of a legacy.”

Murdoc finishes his “meal” and takes his first tablets. While he wasn't expecting Evan to melt, Wicked Witch of the West style, the act still seems unfairly trivial.

By contrast, the way he feels like retching when he heads back down to the studio and submits Untitled Dancehall Song to Stuart Pot's One Stop Shop feels too momentous to bear. 

*

Stuart has varying degrees of success when it comes to the One Stop Shop. There are days when his ideas slot together like puzzle pieces and he works through dub samples, dance mixes and pop tunes. There are other days when he sits listening to submissions dumbly, too close to his ideas to see the bigger picture, and winds up scrolling through Facebook instead, looking at photos of Mike and the girls’ day out at Thorpe Park or of Leo's trip to the Cotswolds with his new boyfriend.

He wakes up one morning to two anonymous submissions. One is a hip-hop beat he recognises as Russel's in a matter of seconds, the other a dancehall number that he only links to Murdoc on the third listen after he's paid proper attention to the pared back bassline.

Stuart calls Russel before starting his day's work.

“That obvious huh?” Russel asks.

“In the best way possible. How you been Russ?”

Stuart wanders around Spirit House as he talks. He winds up sitting on the end of his bed, eyes roving over the spider diagrams.

“I'm doing alright. Working on some community projects, a little session work. Keeping busy.”

“Where are you?”

“LA.”

“Have you heard from Noodle?” Stuart asks, his eyes ticking down the length of each arrow pointing towards “FEAST”.

“We talk. Not all the time, but we talk. You know how it is: ask what she's doing, she says she could tell you but then she'd have to kill you.”

They share a laugh.

“I never knew if she was joking when she said that,” Stuart admits.

“No doubt in my mind that she's not.”

“When you hear from her next, tell her to send me some stuff to work on.”

One sloppily drawn arrow is the wrong orientation to the others, Stuart realises now, pointing down instead of towards “FEAST”.

“Speaking of which,” Russel says. “How you been?”

“Better, yeah. Much,” Stuart pauses. “I'm so-”

“Never apologise for being sick, D. Life's hard enough without feeling bad about being human.”

Stuart smiles appreciatively. 

“So you're working on new material but not calling it Gorillaz. Is that intentional?”

It's not an arrow at all. It's the letters V and L.

“How d'you mean?”

“I mean,” Russel pauses. “I mean Murdoc did what he did and it wouldn't be strange to want to start over.”

“He told you about the beach?”

“Not a lot, but some of it. On the plane, when you were-”

“Right,” Stuart cuts him off. “He was really unwell.”

“I've been really unwell. I never did that. You've been really unwell. You never did that either.”

“Would you work with him again?”

“Maybe,” Russel admits with a sigh. “I've known Murdoc a long time and I don't know that he's ever really been well. I don't know that he's ever worked on getting better, either.”

“Maybe he doesn't know how.”

“Maybe. Maybe he's scared. Couldn't say.”

Stuart silently wills Russel onto another topic, too distracted by the realisation that his wall reads “FEASTIVL” to come up with a topic of his own.

“You got a lot of submissions for your website?”

“Yeah, loads actually,” Stuart says as he looks at the words surrounding FEASTIVL with growing understanding. They're locations. LA, Eastbourne, Mexico City, Brighton, Tokyo. “It's gonna be a weird album.”

“So it is an album?”

Stuart snaps himself out of thoughts of whippy ice creams with flakes and fairground speakers so loud his teeth rattle.

“Maybe. I’m just blowing off the cobwebs at the moment.”

“Well, let me know when you're warmed up and ready to record. I'm here when you need me.”

“Thanks Russ. I better go, yeah?”

Stuart ends the call, jittery from the realisation of what's written on his wall. He feels suddenly caffeinated and jogs back down to the studio to stick the dancehall track on repeat. He wanders around the room as he listens, hands on his head, stroking at the stubble.

Something about the track makes the room feel colder. He thinks about space, remembers his sci-fi phase, and roots around for something fitting. He cobbles together enough words for a chorus and bridge, making a mental note to hone the words later. He adds some tinkling synth melodies then plays it back as he paces again.

Stuart attaches the track to his email. After a moment's hesitation, he adds a second track to seal the deal. His mouth goes dry when the email's whisked out of his outbox. He waits.

*

Untitled Dancehall Song is infinitely better after the 2D Treatment, even if the lyrics make no sense. Murdoc lays on the recording studio settee and plays it on loop.

It's the second song Stuart sends Murdoc that forces his hand. Andromeda. If he'd still been hearing Evan properly, he might have tried to argue with Evan that it wasn't about him. Not about them. Murdoc puts off listening to the track for days. When he finally does, it's after several ciders, flopped on the settee with his eyes closed.

Murdoc doesn't understand the sunny picture it paints of their clubbing days - sarcasm? Nostalgia? An alternative version of events? - but he knows what it's intended to be. An invitation.

He replies to the email with words, not music.

*

The holiday season is over so the hotel gives 2D two nice rooms looking out over the estuary. He spends the first day catching up on sleep and getting over his jetlag. He gets up at odd hours during the night and stands on his balcony, looking at the treacle black waters lapping at the coast. His stomach lurches faintly.

He's not drowning, not dying, he reminds himself. He's not sinking because he's building.

2D wakes up early the next morning and reaches blindly for his phone on the bedside table. He squints at it until his eyes adjust to the screen's stark glow, then opens Murdoc's email and reads its single sentence.

_Do you really just say “distortion” in the bridge?_

2D lays and stares at the ceiling with his phone resting on his chest. He listens to the seagulls circling and screaming for a while. Then, he scrolls down to “Me” and dials. Murdoc answers near instantly.

“Yes. How soon can you get to Southend?” 2D asks.

“By noon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. the 2D pronunciation is “Sarfend”.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this instalment! Feel free to swing by my Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like to chat about the power of platonic male friendship or why on earth I'm setting a chapter in Southend-on-Sea.


	19. 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back in town. 
> 
> Featuring another retro restaurant chain, Elvis impersonations and sloppy kisses with plenty of tongue.
> 
> Warnings for a tone 180, Murdoc being gross, Leonardo DiCaprio bashing and use of homophobic, classist and anti-Traveller slurs (albeit all used jokingly).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering, the rating goes back up to Explicit in chapter 20, though you're reading the wrong fic if you like sex scenes, mine are so perfunctory.

Murdoc parks in the multi-storey across from the hotel, a large Victorian building with peeling cream paint. Even in its down at heel state, it's probably the grandest accommodation Southend’s got to offer, if the dilapidated and empty shop fronts Murdoc had seen while driving were anything to go by.

He almost misses 2D smoking by the entrance. He's wearing an outfit not dissimilar to Murdoc's: black leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He's also bald, which makes his eyebrows look even larger. Murdoc finds himself staring at the shadow of blue stubble on 2D's head before meeting his eyes. 2D returns the look, expression neutral. Murdoc assumes he looks no different, save even older.

“Alright Britney Spears.”

2D takes a last drag on his cigarette and huffs out a smoky laugh as he crushes the stub with his shoe.

“Alright.”

Murdoc catches a glimpse of front teeth when he speaks. “What's the shaved head in aid of?”

2D shrugs. “Fancied being incognito. Can't do anything about the eyes but I can shave my head.”

“Couldn't you just dye it?”

“Doesn't take.”

“Promise you'll donate your body to science when you die.”

“Promise.”

“And the teeth? Did they grow back spontaneously?”

“Not quite. Thought I'd give a bridge a go,” 2D reaches into a back pocket and holds out a key card. “Here.”

“Cheers.”

They walk through the foyer in silence then face forwards in the lift, watching the floor numbers climb. 2D leads the way down the corridor and opens the door to 415. When Murdoc makes to enter, 2D nods at 417.

“That's your room.”

Murdoc makes sure to look unsurprised. “Right. I'll chuck my suitcase in. What's the plan?”

“I thought we could have lunch then wander around.”

“Alright. Meet out here in ten?”

“Sure.”

Murdoc closes the door to 417 and hears 415’s snick shut. He sets his suitcase on the desk by the kettle and kills the remaining nine minutes looking out the floor length window. It's low tide and the beach, shingle and muddy, seems to stretch out for miles. He looks at the mechanical motion of the theme park to the right and the absurdly long, featureless pier directly ahead. He feels time tick like a metronome.

2D is already leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor when Murdoc leaves 417. They head out and down the sloping road to the front, passing gaudy arcades with outsized neon signs and names like Electric Avenue and New York New York. The arcade games vomit tinny electronic jingles into the street as they pass. Across the road, the occasional person or dog passes along the beach.

2D walks them into a Wimpy and they drop into plastic chairs screwed to the floor. Murdoc ignores his menu in favour of staring at 2D. 2D pretends not to notice, turning pages of his menu before eventually glancing over it with a grin.

“What?”

“Is it 1970 something? I didn't know Wimpys still existed.”

“There's a few in Southend. I thought since Little Chef's no longer with us.”

Murdoc's mind races: is it an allusion to the night on the tour bus? 2D had admitted that he didn't remember what he'd said that night, probably didn't remember draping himself on Murdoc's chest. Murdoc checks the drinks menu and is disappointed, if unsurprised, to find Wimpy doesn't serve alcohol.

“Didn't go for the bender,” 2D notes when they've placed their orders. Murdoc shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Never understood why they thought it was a good idea to call the sausage a bender.”

“It's really weird,” 2D agrees with a juvenile snigger. Their food arrives and Murdoc scoffs some of his fish finger sandwich so he can take his tablets. 2D tracks his actions with undisguised interest.

“What are the pills for?”

“My back’s been playing up.”

“Right.” 2D drinks his milkshake, eyeballing the tablet packaging. “Bit weird you're taking antipsychotics for that.”

Murdoc grimaces at his chips before meeting 2D's eyes. “Trust you to know what they are. There anything you haven't sampled?”

“Why d'you need them?”

Murdoc feels the lack of alcohol keenly but tries to mask his irritation. “For auditory and visual hallucinations. I can ask my therapist for my file if you’d like a gander.”

2D's expression pinches. “Congrats on being teetotal.”

“What?” Murdoc asks, baffled.

“Well, if you're on medication, you must be laying off the drink.” Murdoc's ready to lay into 2D for his hypocrisy when he sees the way his lips twitch upwards. Murdoc mirrors his smirk.

“Absolutely. Just good clean fun this weekend, right?”

“Definitely." 2D toys with his straw. His front teeth gnaw at his bottom lip as he mulls something over and Murdoc feels his chest tighten in anticipation.

“Just ask your fucking questions. I've got plenty myself.”

“Like why we're in Southend?”

“Yeah, that question ranks high,” Murdoc scowls.

“I wanted to see if I could spend time with you without getting the urge to slap you.”

“And that could only happen in Southend?”

Judging by 2D's expression, Murdoc's already testing his resolve. “I like Southend. My dad's parents lived in Canning Town originally but they moved out here when they retired, we'd come and visit.”

“So we're visiting your grandparents?”

“Yeah, they're gagging to meet you,” 2D deadpans. “They died ages ago, I just wanted to see it again.”

They study one another as they eat. Murdoc tries to glean what 2D isn't telling him from the curl of his lip and the quirk of his eyebrow.

“Boyfriend wouldn't come with you?”

2D looks momentarily livid. He forces a humourless smile. “Did you hear what I said about slapping you?”

Murdoc makes a noise of acknowledgment.

“We broke up. Two years ago.”

Murdoc does the maths and lets himself wonder. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Come off it.”

They share a dark smile. Murdoc finishes his lunch, balling the greaseproof paper-like napkin and dropping it on his plate.

“You've been keeping busy. Good idea after you've been dumped.” 2D doesn't bother correcting his assumption but his effort to look amused rather than annoyed seems increasingly strained.

“Yeah, really good idea. How'd you fill the time?” 2D retorts and Murdoc barks a laugh.

“I wrote sad songs, what else?”

“I bought a studio.”

Murdoc can't hide his surprise. 2D looks delighted at his reaction. “What?”

“Well, I bought a house and got a studio put in the basement.”

“Where?”

“Detroit.”

“Eh?”

“Detroit.”

“I’m not following.”

2D's about to repeat himself but spots Murdoc's grin. He cups his mouth and pretends to speak through a vocoder. “Deeeeetroooooit.”

“Was that an allusion to the classic Gorillaz song, Detroit, by any chance?” Murdoc asks faux earnestly.

“It was, as you say, a reference to fan favourite, Detroit by Gorillaz,” 2D agrees drily, kicking Murdoc lightly under the table. Murdoc gives him a shit eating grin.

“You reckon you're Berry Gordy now?”

“What was I supposed to do? Kong’s gone, the beach,” his voice wavers at the word, “the beach's gone. Wobble Street's in Hammersmith.”

Murdoc pulls a face. “It's so boring out there. We're probably gonna get evicted, I'm not convinced Walter Kenny are passing the rent to the landlord. Why Detroit?”

“Why not?”

“You bought the rave place.” Murdoc can't even say how he knows.

“Yeah.”

“Why that craphole?”

“It was dirt cheap,” 2D offers. “It felt right. Why did you buy Plastic Beach?”

There's barely a pause between 2D's talk of Detroit and Plastic Beach. It takes Murdoc a second to process what he's said. “Because I'd burned down Kong.”

“So you did do that." 2D sounds unsurprised.

“Yeah.”

“Why'd you burn it down?”

Murdoc buys time by finishing his Pepsi. “Because of the visual and auditory hallucinations. How long do you plan on being in Southend? Just trying to gauge how much investigative journalism I can expect.”

“Today and tomorrow.”

“Right. Where're you off after this?”

“Dunno yet. How about you?”

Murdoc leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he collects himself. “You're not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Would you want me to?” 2D counters. Murdoc gets up with a smirk and goes to pay the bill.

“I need to go to Summerland,” 2D says when they're outside, zipping up their jackets against the punishing wind.

“Need to? Anyone’d think you were up to something, Pot.”

“Yeah, anyone might. Luckily we always say what we mean, so there's no confusion here.”

The theme park is a mess of primary colours with sullen teenage staff doing company mandated dance routines beside each ride. The stench of sugar permeates everything and threatens to turn Murdoc's stomach. Kids fuelled by ice cream and candy floss ricochet about the place and Murdoc and 2D do their best to dodge them.

Nostalgia softens 2D's features as he looks around. They stand by the side of the dodgems and 2D smiles to himself as some teenagers ram into one another, squealing and yelling. His expression turns strangely serious when they pass open spaces, brow knitted as though making some sort of assessment. When he's finished, 2D seems to remember Murdoc's presence.

“Want to go on any rides?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been on a roller-coaster?“

“No. That's what drugs are for,” Murdoc says curtly. They reach a silent agreement to head for the nearest exit. “How's this compare to your dad's fairground?”

“Well that's a travelling thing. Lot smaller. Lot louder, less stuffy.”

“No dance routines to learn?”

2D smiles. “No. I'd pick the music for the rides, though.”

“Jesus. Best of Heaven 17 was it?”

2D whistles Temptation. Murdoc shakes his head and directs his smile away from him.

“We had more carnival games,” 2D notes.

“Yeah? Rigged?” Murdoc asks conspiratorially. 2D smirks.

“Most of ‘em.”

“Robbed ‘em blind?”

“Obviously.”

“Bloody pikey.”

“Fucking chav,” 2D retorts. They grin fiercely at one another until they're forced to engage with their surroundings as a family try to get by with prams. Summerland spits them back out onto the seafront.

“Want a walk on the beach?” 2D asks.

“Want is strong.”

It's cold enough that Murdoc's eyes water as they walk into the wind, shingle crunching under foot. 2D stands closest to the sea, glancing at it silently from time to time.

“When’d you last go to the seaside?”

“Does Venice Beach count?” Murdoc asks.

“No, I mean British seaside.”

Murdoc frowns in thought. “Except for that sit on the beach in Brighton? Early seventies?”

2D looks baffled. “Seriously?”

“No, that was a hilarious joke. Hannibal took me to Rhyl when I was a kid. The police were after him and I came along for the ride.”

“I remember you saying Rhyl was shit. How's Southend compare?”

“I'm reserving judgment.”

They walk a mile or more, past beachside shops selling doughnuts, postcards and sandcastle buckets, half of which are closed for the off season. The shops get replaced by houses and 2D comes to a halt at a section of beach facing scrubland surrounded by hoardings. Murdoc's about to ask him what the fascination is when 2D apparently realises himself. They sit down on the low wall separating the beach from the pavement and study the sea.

“Could you sing before the crash?” Murdoc asks, if only to delay any questions of 2D's.

2D looks at him like he's said something embarrassing. “You think an Astra to the head has magical properties?”

“Well I assumed you must've. How come you never did anything with it before then?”

“I'd sing in my bedroom, and in the shower. And along to the car radio,” 2D says, tone bordering on defensive.

“But not on a stage.”

“Well, no.”

“Not even at school?”

“Just at school assembly and stuff.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I was shy?”

“No you weren't, you were always going on about Matt and Mark and Theo and Leo and Greg and fuck knows who else when you moved into Kong. Never invited any of ‘em ‘round though so maybe they were all imaginary.”

The way 2D momentarily flinches at the list of names suggests Murdoc has unwittingly hit on the name of 2D's ex. He tamps down on the urge to ask which it was.

“You lot woulda got on like a house on fire,” 2D mutters before lapsing into silence. “I didn't do anything about it because it was alright, I was fine. It was low stakes.”

“What was?”

“My life,” 2D says, barely a whisper.

“But-” Murdoc prompts.

“Higher stakes means higher rewards. That and, at the risk of coming over all Buddhist,” he says sardonically, “I just thought… you really don't know what'll happen. You go to work and then the next thing you know, it's a year later and you're dosed to the gills singing Human League while your mates are off with their girlfriends, going to uni, getting on with their lives. Plus I had no idea how to write music back then so I'd have been working on a cruise ship singing show tunes or something.”

“Missed opportunity.”

2D grimaces with apparent dissatisfaction. “Did that explain?”

“Yeah, it did. You've said before that it's like you've got a switch and I’ve flipped it.”

“Let's be fair, you flipped a few of my switches,” 2D mutters. Murdoc smirks at him.

They watch a dog walker pass by, watch the dog tear ahead to retrieve its ball over and over, spinning in circles as it anticipates the next throw.

“Sing something.”

“What?” 2D looks puzzled. “Now?”

“Why not? Been a while since I heard you.”

“Have you tried listening to a Gorillaz album, available at all good music retailers?”

““Good music retailers”? Mate, like anyone’s buying albums anymore. S’all about streaming, get with the programme.”

2D concedes a nod.

“It's different live,” Murdoc insists.

“What'm I singing?”

“Frontman's choice.”

2D purses his lips thoughtfully. Decision apparently made, he attempts to hum an instrumental intro before starting to sing.

“I need a little time, to think it over. I need a little space, just on my own.”

“Beautiful fucking South?”

2D pauses and shrugs. “Frontman’s choice, isn't it?”

Murdoc shakes his head despairingly.

“I need a little time, to find my freedom, I need a little…” 2D hesitates while he apparently decides whether to pitch the imminent female singer’s vocals down or sing falsetto.

“You’ve literally picked a duet. You're that good a singer you can sing a duet?”

2D ignores him and opts for falsetto, dragging a smile out of Murdoc. The smile lingers when 2D takes a brief, seated bow after he's finished. Murdoc throws in a couple of claps.

“I didn't think through the duet,” 2D admits.

“Which one are you, the sad bird who wants a divorce or the fractionally happier bloke who doesn't?”

“It's just a song. Not everything's about us,” 2D says with a mean looking smile.

“Well, you've successfully cured me of any urge to hear you sing ever again, cheers for that.”

2D goes back to staring at the sea as the tide encroaches. “What do you remember about the beach?”

Murdoc suddenly feels like he's got heartburn. He plants his hands firmly on the wall as he speaks levelly. “The movie? Not seen it. The All Saints song was passable.”

2D shoots him a faintly disgusted look. “You shat on Beautiful South but Pure Shores is fine?”

“I said passable, you're the weirdo that knows the title.” Murdoc considers 2D. “You look a bit like DiCaprio actually. Or you did before you shaved your head and he started retaining water, anyway.”

2D gives his scalp a quick rub. “Girls'll never go for this.”

“Fuck off, you're stunning,” Murdoc snaps dismissively. He spots how 2D's eyebrows lift, eyes still trained on the sea. “You know, aside from how you’re always fucking fishing for compliments.”

“I'm fit but I know it?”

“Yeah, my gosh, don't you know it,” Murdoc quotes back.

2D smiles to himself. “You've said I look like DiCaprio before.”

“Have I?”

“Yeah, ages ago. The night I met Russ, properly met him.” 2D lights a cigarette and takes a drag. “You asked me back to your place.”

“I did.”

“Would you have made a move on me if I'd gone?”

“Yes.” Murdoc plucks the cigarette from 2D's hand, takes a drag and passes it back, chuckling.

“What's funny?”

“Aside from everything y’mean? Just how you remember the first time I complimented you. Did you write it down for posterity?”

“I used to write them all down but I was running out of notebooks.” Murdoc goes momentarily ashen until 2D starts grinning. Murdoc shoves his shoulder then guides 2D's cigarette holding hand towards him. 2D gathers Murdoc's aim and holds the cigarette to his mouth so he can take a drag. They lapse into silence, shoulder to shoulder, Murdoc's hand resting on the wall behind 2D for balance. 2D alternates between taking drags on the cigarette and holding it for Murdoc, fingers lightly brushing Murdoc's lips as he inhales. When the cigarette is down to the filter, 2D stubs it out on the wall but they remain in place, shoulders flush. The silence gets heavier as time passes. Murdoc eventually pulls himself away, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets while 2D picks at a thread on his jeans.

“What now?” Murdoc asks.

“I was thinking of going to the Southend match.”

“I'd rather die.”

“They're playing Dagenham and Redbridge.”

“Well that changes everything,” Murdoc deadpans. “Let's just day drink like normal people.”

*

They wind up in The Horn of Plenty, a scruffy pub on the front. 2D watches the Hammers match on the television as they drink and provides Murdoc with a running commentary. Murdoc alternates being insisting he's gone deaf and that he doesn't speak English before he finally goes to play on a fruit machine. Towards the end of the match there's a jangle as coins skitter out of the machine when Murdoc wins. Murdoc pockets them and walks back to 2D, eyes trained on the nearby darts board.

“Fancy a game?”

“I'll take someone's eye out.”

“Pool?”

“I'm shit.”

“I'm great. I'd say I'll go easy on you but I won't.”

They rummage in their pockets for twenty pence pieces. Murdoc lines up several on the side of the pool table after inserting two to release the balls.

“How many games are you planning on?”

“They'll be short games since I'll be thrashing you,” Murdoc explains as he arranges the balls in the rack. He sets the cue ball on the table and gestures for 2D to start.

“You go first,” 2D insists. Murdoc shrugs and grabs a cue from the wall rack. He breaks, sinks two red balls then takes two more shots and pots two more. 2D's convinced Murdoc only misses his next shot to give him a chance to play. He leaves the cue ball flush to the cushion, hemmed in by red balls. 2D leans on his cue and surveys the table, then Murdoc.

“Thanks for that.”

“Nice easy shot for you,” Murdoc agrees wryly.

2D walks around the table in a futile bid to find a decent shot. Murdoc uses the time to sink his fruit machine winnings into the digital jukebox on the wall. He taps around on the screen intently, then selects a track. Peaches by The Stranglers starts playing and Murdoc swaggers back to the table in time with the bass. 2D holds his cue in the crook of his arm to play the melody on air keyboard as Murdoc snarls along with Cornwell, using his cue as a microphone stand while he stalks around the table. 2D watches with barely disguised interest. Murdoc notices and gives him a toothy grin. A few other patrons, mostly old men watching the football, give Murdoc a suspicious look but Murdoc seems unfazed. He claps 2D on the shoulder.

“I'll get another round in. Maybe you're one of those pool players who gets better when they're pissed.”

“Doubtful.”

2D finally takes his shot while Murdoc's getting served and succeeds in potting the cue ball and tapping one of Murdoc's balls closer to a pocket. Murdoc hands him his pint and surveys the table.

“You know you're yellow, right?”

“Piss off,” 2D smiles. The Boys Are Back In Town starts playing and 2D snorts a laugh.

“One of the boys hasn't even been to Southend before.”

“It's just a song. Not everything is about us,” Murdoc admonishes sarcastically as he sinks another two balls before missing. 2D takes his shot and knocks the eight ball. Murdoc grabs it before it falls into a pocket.

“Let's pretend you didn't do that.”

“Thanks.”

“You more a dominoes man?”

“Sod off, I said I was shit, didn't I?”

“You did, I thought maybe you were being humble,” Murdoc says as he pots his final ball and the eight ball. He quickly crouches down to put more money in the table with a mutter of “best of five”.

The pub gets busier as the night wears on. 2D turns around when he hears giggles and sees a hen party in matching black t-shirts and pastel pink sashes coming through the door. Murdoc finishes winning their latest game before standing at 2D's side.

“That lot recognise us,” Murdoc mutters in his ear.

2D glances back at the hens who, sure enough, are whispering among themselves and darting what they clearly think are furtive looks in their direction.

“D'you wanna go somewhere else?” 2D asks.

“Where's the fun in that?”

Murdoc walks back over to the jukebox and makes another selection. In the time it takes 2D to recognise the song as Pump It Up by Elvis Costello, Murdoc goes from standing idly to channelling the other Elvis, swinging his hips and gyrating to the beat.

The hens give an approving cheer and Murdoc beckons the bride over with a crook of his finger. Her friends egg her on as they follow behind, laughing and chatting.

“I'm Murdoc,” Murdoc says, clearly unnecessarily given the way the bride laughs and blushes. “What's your name gorgeous?”

She moves her “Bride To Be” sash enough to show off the words “Kinky Kelly” on her t-shirt.

“Kelly.”

“Kelly!” Murdoc croons approvingly. “Y'know, Kelly was the name of my first love: Kelly O'Driscoll. What a woman, beat the living shit out of me.”

The pair start dancing together, inspiring the other hens to join in. The Maid of Honour - “Naughty Natalie” - starts trying to dance with 2D. He finishes his pint but only loosens up when he starts singing along, ad libbing swathes of lyrics.

“You look really different,” “Horny Harriet” says to 2D as Natalie dashes off to the bar.

“Yeah, I just fancied a change, y'know,” 2D smiles.

“I loved the blue hair,” Harriet slurs. “I mean I'd shag you without it but you looked so good with it.” 2D and the hens laugh.

Natalie comes back with a tray of Jagerbombs as You Shook Me All Night Long starts playing. The sea of women parts momentarily as they reach for shots and 2D meets Murdoc's eye. Murdoc silently toasts him. 2D gives him a nod and makes to approach him, only for Harriet and Natalie to block the way. He downs his shots.

2D divides his time between dancing with Busty Becky and Loose Lucy but his gaze keeps slipping back to Murdoc and Kelly. Despite downing the lion's share of the shots at the hens' insistence, the pair are still dancing relatively well, if seedily. Murdoc returns each of his looks with a small smile.

“Why're you in Southend anyway?” 2D hears Kelly ask over Gimme All Your Lovin’. Murdoc leans towards Natalie to stage whisper “what's the groom called?”

“Darren.”

“To win you back from Darren. C'mon Kelly, it's not too late, reconsider!” Murdoc pleads to howls of approval from the hens. The sides of 2D's face start aching from grinning.

ZZ Top singing about whipping things up inspires 2D to dart over to the jukebox, select a track and bump it up the list. When Whip It starts playing, Murdoc gives him a grudging nod of approval. The song accelerates Murdoc and Kelly's descent into the obscene, with Murdoc soon stood behind Kelly's attempt at twerking as he pretends to spank her backside. What finally gets them thrown out by the bouncer is Murdoc and Kelly attempting to pull each other up onto the pool table.

After the hens’ demands for justice and Murdoc's attempts to bribe the bouncer fail, the women accept their fate and make plans to go to the nearest nightclub.

“You coming with us?” Natalie slurs.

“Better not,” Murdoc says woefully. “I don't want Darren kicking my head in. But ladies,” he spreads his arms wide, “it's been a pleasure. Kinky Kelly,” he turns to Kelly, who mirrors his pose. There's a moment's pause and then they're snogging with what sounds like an impressive amount of tongue. Kelly's friends howl with delight and snap photos while 2D doubles over, on the verge of throwing up, he's laughing so hard.

The pair eventually come up for air, also laughing, and the hens begin weaving down the front towards their nightclub. When they reach a set of traffic lights, Kelly turns around to yell “When I divorce Darren I'm coming for you Murdoc!”

“Better fucking do Kelly!” Murdoc bellows to a cheer from the hens. Murdoc and 2D walk up the road to the hotel, 2D still laughing, Murdoc grinning sidelong at him.

“You're such a tart,” 2D chokes out when he's able.

Murdoc's smile turns sleazy. “Been a while since you've called me that.”

“Sorry, I know how much you like it,” 2D riffs.

Murdoc takes as deep a breath as he can apparently manage and lets it out in a huff, shoulders slumping with exaggerated fatigue. “Christ, I'm not getting any younger.”

“Need to find someone with some speed?”

“I'll settle for bed.”

“Very rock and roll.”

When they're in the hotel's lift, 2D turns to Murdoc. Murdoc gives him a questioning look.

“You could be a frontman. Definitely.”

“No shit Sherlock, I was one for a decade.”

“Then-”

“Then you came along. Why would I want to when I could just watch you?”

The opening lift doors interrupt 2D's reply. They walk down the corridor to 415 and 417 and stand beside their respective doors.

“Want to get breakfast tomorrow?” 2D asks.

“When have I ever done breakfast?”

“Lunch then?”

“I'll just text you when I'm up,” Murdoc says, unlocking his door.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

2D heads inside 415 and sits heavily on the end of his bed. He stares at the door for a moment, body feeling leaden, then focuses on pulling off his trainers. He pulls off his left shoe, drops it to the floor. He pulls off his right shoe. There's a knock at the door. The shoe falls out of his hands as he jolts up from the bed and fumbles with the lock.

Murdoc stands framed in the doorway, expression impenetrable. They watch one another for a moment, Murdoc making to say something and thinking better of it. 2D steps closer until Murdoc fills his vision. Murdoc bridges the distance with a kiss, hands gripping 2D's waist as 2D's hands clutch his face.

“Why'd you get two rooms?” Murdoc asks against his lips, tone devastated. 2D swallows hard.

“I don't know,” he says dazedly. “I don't know.”

They move out of range of the door as they carry on kissing, Murdoc kicking it shut behind them. 2D walks them towards the bed but feels how Murdoc falters.

“I've been up since seven, I'm shattered,” Murdoc admits quietly, taking a step back. “I just,” he studies the carpet before making a concentrated effort to look at 2D. “Could I just sleep in here?” They share a tired look. 2D whispers a “yeah”.

They strip down to their underwear in silence. Murdoc gets under the duvet and 2D arranges himself on top of him, head on Murdoc's chest, hand resting on his arm. One of Murdoc's hands finds 2D's scalp and cradles it. It occurs to 2D that the last person to touch his head like that, without the barrier of hair, was his mum. He remembers how she'd held him in the hospital after he'd fallen out of the tree, as he'd struggled through his first migraines. 2D shivers and Murdoc's hand stiffens as though to withdraw.

“It's okay,” 2D murmurs. “It's alright.”

“Okay,” Murdoc whispers, “okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the latest instalment! Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like. 
> 
> P.S. If this felt like too easy a resolution, you're right. These two aren't out of the woods/done with Southend yet.


	20. 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the line at the end of the pier.
> 
> Featuring threatened cock smacks, “salad” and lots and lots of tears.
> 
> Warnings for: sex, language, injury, emotional constipation to the max and brief internalised homophobia/misogyny.

2D wakes to the sound of fingers drumming on a touch screen.

“Morning sunbeam.”

He mumbles an acknowledgment into Murdoc's chest.

“Bit awkward, you still being here in the morning.” 2D hears Murdoc set his phone down on the bedside table. He places both hands lightly on 2D's back.

“You've made that joke before,” 2D says, tweaking Murdoc's nipple by way of reminder. Murdoc chuckles.

“I'll work on some fresh material.”

“Must be going senile.” Murdoc flicks 2D's back. “You're fifty next year. Ancient.”

That earns 2D a couple more flicks. He hoists himself off Murdoc and lays down on his pillow, cold from lack of use. They turn on their sides to face one another.

“Trying your luck this morning, aren't you?”

“Something about your face, can't help myself.”

Murdoc makes no effort to suppress his amused smile. “Twat.” Murdoc drapes an arm over 2D’s waist. “What's the plan? What else does Southend have to offer? Feels like we exhausted the possibilities yesterday.”

“I thought we could start with getting the breakfast buffet. It comes with the room.”

“Oh D, you really know how to get my motor running,” Murdoc rumbles, hand stroking 2D's back.

“I think I'm gonna get muesli.”

“Well, now I'm flaccid.”

2D gives Murdoc's side a playful smack. Murdoc pretends to wince as he rubs the offending spot.

“You lasted a whole day before slapping me. Good self restraint Pot.”

2D can't help his grin. He gives Murdoc a mock apologetic pat. “There's nothing wrong with muesli.”

“Nothing right with it either, it's grit in yoghurt. This's what Sober 2D gets for being veggie.”

“What d'you mean, “Sober 2D”?”

“I mean I've seen Drunk 2D inhale a Chicken Nugget Extra Value Meal.”

2D ignores Murdoc as he lifts the man's arm by the wrist to check the time. He catches sight of the crosshatch of white and pink scars on his hand, souvenirs from Plastic Beach, like his own but worse. Murdoc's shoulders tense as he pulls his hand away, placing it on 2D's back once more.

“They stop serving at eleven so we've got time to eat muesli or animal flesh as we prefer,” 2D says. “I'm amazed you're even up.”

“I usually sleep more ‘cause I've drunk more.”

“You had a lot of Jager. And all the cider.”

“Nothing like the old days. I still can't look at a bottle of Malibu.”

“Yeah, you drank a lot of rum on the beach.”

Consternation briefly flits across Murdoc's face before he nods.

“What do you remember about the beach?” 2D tries again. Murdoc's expression sours as he makes to let go of him. 2D lightly holds Murdoc's arm to keep him in place.

“What's it matter?”

2D looks at the scars on his own hand as he speaks. “It's not done a lot of good, not talking about it.”

“I suppose not.” 2D waits futilely for Murdoc to say more.

“Do you remember it? You said you had hallucinations and-”

“I remember,” Murdoc cuts across him. “I just remember things that didn't happen too.”

“Like what?” 2D darts a glance at Murdoc and sees how distant and drawn he looks.

“It was like a devil telling me what to do. Telling me I,” Murdoc pauses, expression pained, “telling me I was a murderer, to fix what I'd done.”

“By writing another album?”

“By putting the band back together, by fixing Noodle,” Murdoc's voice cracks on her name. He lets go of 2D and covers his face, fingers gripping hard at his temples. 2D feels heat prick his eyes. “By just… I dunno. I'm retrofitting logic into something insane.”

“Right.”

“But I do remember,” Murdoc murmurs. “I remember Tesco. I remember texting you. I could have not done, if I'd tried harder.”

“You don't know that,” 2D says without conviction.

“No, but there were plenty of opportunities to stop between knocking you out and taking you to a fucking tropical island and I didn't take any of them.”

2D waits for Murdoc to continue. When he looks at him, he seems older, smaller and resigned.

“Breakfast then?” 2D asks quietly.

“Yeah, breakfast,” Murdoc agrees unenthusiastically as he hauls himself out of bed.

*

They opt to walk the other way along the front, towards Westcliff, where their surroundings get quieter and posher. They call in Russo's ice cream parlour. Murdoc gets rhubarb and custard flavour, which obliges 2D to call him an old fart. 2D gets blue bubblegum flavour and Murdoc openly grimaces as he starts licking it while they walk down the beach.

“It's on brand,” 2D explains drily. Murdoc's gaze flits between the stubble on 2D's head and the ice cream.

“It's a good match.”

It tastes like plastic. 2D forces it down, if only for the way Murdoc keeps glancing sidelong at him, caught between irritation and amusement. They near the theatre and 2D slows his pace as he estimates its size. When they've tired of walking, they find a chippy and get chips, curry sauce, battered sausage and fishcake. They sit on a bench facing the sea as they eat, the chip papers spread on Murdoc's lap. 2D makes an effort to use his little wooden fork but gives up the pretense when Murdoc just picks up the fishcake and takes a bite.

“I could make a crass joke about what else you could do with your hand while it's down there,” Murdoc mutters around his mouthful as 2D reaches for a chip.

“You could. And I could accidentally whack you in the cock,” 2D senses Murdoc's next joke, “but you're probably into that, yeah yeah, I know.” He punctuates his sentence with a chomp of battered sausage, made easier thanks to the front teeth.

“You know all my best lines, don't you?” Murdoc smirks.

“I've known you eighteen years.” 2D chews contemplatively. “I've known you half my life, practically.”

There's something apologetic about the shift of Murdoc's mouth. They finish their lunches, hands brushing as they reach for chips.

“Why are we in Southend?” Murdoc asks as he lights cigarettes for dessert. “I feel like the reason's getting less obvious the longer we're here.”

“I was thinking about a music festival.”

“Which one?”

“A new one.” Murdoc looks at him blankly. “I got thinking about Gorillaz in Detroit, about what it is, what it could be.”

“Did you figure it out?” Murdoc asks, eyes creasing in a smile. “I've never managed that.”

“Not really,” 2D admits. “But it's never felt like a band, has it?” He feels Murdoc bridle at the observation. “Not just a band, anyway. It's too loose knit for that. It's better than that. It's,” he feels himself rambling but goes along with it. “I don't want to call it a day and all we've got to show for it is some CDs in a garden centre bargain bin.”

Murdoc snorts a laugh. “Christ, that's bleak. Right next to the whale song and some X Factor shite.”

“I want to know that when we're done, music's in safe hands. I don't want to turn on the radio and immediately want to turn it off again.”

Murdoc gives him a pensive look. 2D quirks an eyebrow in reply.

“Do many drugs in Detroit?”

“Acid,” 2D admits and Murdoc makes a noise of understanding.

“Lofty thoughts. Sounds like an upgrade. Gorillaz 2.0.”

“Yeah: harder, better, faster, stronger than before.”

“I prefer Stronger.” Murdoc clearly spots his confusion. “Kanye's one.”

“Are you seriously saying you like Stronger more than Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger?”

“I seriously am,” Murdoc says, obviously enjoying the opportunity to be contrary. “Daft Punk's too repetitive.”

2D’s brow furrows in confusion when Murdoc's hands hover over the chip papers.

“I thought I sensed an imminent cock smack,” Murdoc explains. “Thought I better take precautions.”

2D gives Murdoc what he hopes is a withering look.

“Parking how unbelievably wrong you are about Kanye for a second,” Murdoc carries on. “How d'you see this working? Get collaborators to perform their own stuff? Get other acts involved as well? In Southend?”

“Southend’s a bad fit,” 2D admits. “The theatre's titchy, football ground's not that near the front. There's that bit of land down the other end of the beach where you could build something temporary but it's sort of out of the way.” He pauses. “What do you think?”

“About Southend or the festival idea?”

“Festival.”

“Gorillaz would headline?”

“Obviously.”

Murdoc smokes a while in silence. “Thought I was the one who always had a plan in their back pocket.”

“I've known you half my life, you've rubbed off on me.”

“So you said. I think you're right about Southend. Not sure this place is ready for a paradigm shifting music festival. Kelly is, but not Southend.”

2D chuckles. “Bet she's feeling rough this morning.”

“My poor betrothed.” Murdoc purses his lips in thought. “Does it have to be a place on the coast?”

“Yeah, by the sea,” 2D agrees firmly and sees something like understanding in Murdoc's eyes.

“How about Blackpool?”

They consider for a second before laughing.

“Southend’s not ready but Blackpool is?” 2D asks.

“Hey, there's tons of drugs in Blackpool, it's right up my strasse.”

“Yeah, lots of heroin. Stick to speed, stupid old goth.”

Murdoc's lips quirk as he studies the sea. “Leave it with me, I'll give it some thought.”

“Thanks.”

They finish their cigarettes in silence.

“If I hadn't answered your call, would you have planned it without me?” Murdoc asks.

“There was never much risk of that,” 2D side steps as Murdoc crumples their empty chip papers. 2D's eyes train on the pier in the distance. He makes his decision.

“We should have a walk on the pier before we leave.”

*

The pier is every bit as endless, featureless and devoid of people as it had looked from Murdoc's window. The grey-white cloud has settled low in the sky, hemming them in and swallowing the view.

“It's the longest leisure pier in the world,” 2D offers unprompted as they stride into the void, eyes streaming thanks to the wind. Murdoc grunts an acknowledgement.

“They had to make it really long because of the tidal ra-”

“I'll throw you over the side if you keep feeding me fun pier facts, D.”

2D chuckles.

“So we're leaving in the morning?” Murdoc asks when they reach the half mile marker. They're still nowhere near the end.

“Might as well if Southend’s not right for a festival.”

“Where're we going? Wobble Street?” 2D doesn't answer. “Needs to be somewhere with a studio so we can get the album finished.”

They fall out of step as 2D's pace slows.

“What album?”

“The one we've been writing. I've been working on stuff since the tour ended. Judging by that website of yours, you've not been sitting around, twiddling your thumbs, either.”

“I've written a few things,” 2D agrees noncommittally. They come to a halt, wind whipping their faces as they look at one another.

“What's the problem? You've got your grand plan, I've got mine. How's it even surprising that I want to release an album?”

“It's not,” 2D agrees slowly.

“So,” Murdoc ticks off items on his fingers, “get back to Wobble Street, finish up the album, get Noodle and Russ back on board, get a tour booked. Bish bash bosh. Sounds good to me.”

“Sounds like last time.”

“Last time was fine apart from you coming off your rocker,” Murdoc grafts a smile onto his face. “I was partial to the room sharing arrangement.”

2D's despondent look blindsides Murdoc. “We're going back to shagging on tour then?”

“I'm not averse. Let's go back to the hotel and seal the deal with a blowjob, my treat.”

“Now?”

“Better than staying on this fucking pier, there's nowt here.”

2D's eyes are trained on the sea. The grey-white light emphasises the purple bags under his eyes and deepens the lines around his mouth. Murdoc's heart thuds in preemptive horror as 2D makes to speak.

“I can't keep doing this.”

Murdoc ignores the chill flooding him in favour of scowling. “What're you on about? It's a blowjob for chrissake, where’s the problem?”

“Do you want to be doing this when I'm fifty and you're sixty?”

Murdoc feels his expression threaten to shatter and grits his teeth. “Stop being daft.”

“I'm not being daft, I'm saying-”

“You're boring the bollocks off me,” he spits out. “Go back to talking about how you think Daft Punk's somehow better than Kanye. Have you even heard My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy? Brilliant album, Daft Punk'd be lucky to come up with anything half as good as-”

“STOP TALKING ABOUT MUSIC FOR ONCE IN YOUR FUCKING LIFE!” 2D bellows. Murdoc's legs threaten to buckle.

“I can't keep doing this,” 2D insists, not yet crying but on the verge, voice thick with it. “I can't go ‘round this loop again.”

Murdoc starts walking away robotically, head bowed. It takes him a few seconds to appreciate that he's going the wrong way, further from civilisation and deeper into the mist.

“Murdoc.”

He plows on, widens the distance between them.

“Murdoc, wait.”

He hears the familiar thud of 2D's feet at his back. He holds the pier railing and forges ahead on shaking legs.

“Murdoc, where do you think you're going? It's a fucking pier!”

“I don't know, I'll swim to Kent,” Murdoc offers, dazedly.

The footsteps at his back continue. They pass the mile marker. Murdoc whips around, eyes wild.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, not recognising the high pitched voice as his own. 2D stops feet away.

“What?”

“You're always going on about what are we, what do I want from you,” Murdoc gabbles, still clutching the railing, “but then you crack some joke about how much I compliment you and how you're running out of room writing them all down.”

2D looks stunned. He makes to speak but Murdoc plows on, suddenly livid. “You're always asking what are we, what are we, what do I want but you know I love you!” Murdoc roars. “You know! You've always known, you've got to! So where's it get us? Fucking nowhere!”

2D's shoulders slump in obvious devastation. “That's not fair.”

“I don't care if it's fair, it's true. Now fuck off,” Murdoc snarls, jabbing down the pier with a finger.

2D's jaw clenches. “That's not fucking fair. I ask you what’s going on because I have no fucking idea! And you say I know you?” He sneers the words. “I know nothing! I know nothing about you. I know the daft bollocks you come out with in interviews or when you're drunk and who's saying any of that's true?”

Murdoc's caught between turning to leave and arguing his case. He chokes on his words. “Drop it, Stu.”

“I can't. Not again,” 2D says, voice low with anger.

“Just fuck off back to Detroit, I'm sick of the sight of you.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

“Drop it. What's it matter?”

“All the weird shit you've come out with, like,” 2D's eyebrows knit in bafflement, “like how you lost your virginity to a fucking dinner lady when you were nine, or, or how your dad and your brother and god knows who else broke your nose. Is any of it true?”

“What's it matter? Who fucking cares?” Murdoc snaps. He hears the desperation in his voice and grips the railing harder in rage.

“I care,” 2D growls. “Who are you? Is any of what you say true?”

Murdoc's head sags. He addresses the planks of the pier. “All of it's true,” he murmurs.

“Murdoc, I-”

“I'M NOT NORMAL!” Murdoc explodes. 2D takes a step backwards, eyes wide. “I've been telling you for ages, forever, like it even needs saying. I'm not normal! I'm a bad man, I'm fucked in the head! If that's suddenly a problem, if you suddenly don't like me making you a fucking ton of money, getting you out of your low stakes fucking existence in fucking Crawley you can fuck right back there!”

“Jesus, Murdoc-”

“No, you know what, just fuck off Stu. Fuck off, I'm done, go plan your fucking solo album or your fucking festival, I don't care, I’m done,” Murdoc chokes out, letting go of the railing and starting to march away.

The end of the pier swims into focus. A boarded up cafe, silent lifeboat hut and water logged mini golf course. Deserted. Murdoc reaches the final railings and rests his stomach against them as he stares at the sea, gasping for breath.

He hears 2D's footsteps. He swallows down bile.

The rhythmic pounding of 2D's footsteps is suddenly disrupted, replaced by staccato steps, a heavy thud and a hissed breath. Murdoc forces himself to turn and sees 2D sprawled on the pier, clearly having tripped. The man gets up on shaking legs, the knees of his jeans black with rain, chin grazed and bleeding. He cups his mouth with a trembling hand then studies something in his palm momentarily before dropping whatever it is onto the pier. When 2D's mouth opens, Murdoc sees the gap formed by a missing front tooth. His mind threatens to switch out 2D for Stuart, covered in dirt and congealing blood, stood in sick coated trainers. The damage is superficial, Murdoc tells himself. He still wants to start the Astra and drive away.

Murdoc steels himself with a breath and takes a step towards 2D. The man's shudders get worse as he starts crying. When Murdoc makes to close the distance, 2D takes a wobbly step back.

“Don't help me. Go away Murdoc, just go.”

Murdoc feels like he's been struck. He wavers on the spot, looking at 2D hopelessly.

“Just go,” 2D pleads, sounding exhausted as he tentatively touches the cut on his chin. “Just go away.”

Murdoc covers his face, clutching at his temples as he breathes hard. With a concentrated effort he pulls his hand away. He starts crying almost instantly; ugly, girly, wracking sobs. He doesn't bother wiping his tears away as he stands with his hands slack at his sides.

Through blurred vision Murdoc sees 2D cry harder. Murdoc blinks enough to let him see where he's going. He takes slow, deliberate strides towards 2D. The man's face pinches in anticipation.

“Stuart.”

2D stares down at the pier, body wracked by sobs.

“I,” Murdoc can't get out his words. He swallows hard and tries again. “I'll fix it.”

Second place doesn't get tea, Murdoc knows. He'll do better next time, but only if there is a next time. 2D glances up tiredly.

“I'll fix it.” Murdoc lets himself grip his upper arms with either hand, hold himself tight like he had as a child before JacobHannibalSusan, before he'd told himself not to bother. “I'll fix it. I'll do better.”

“You can't fix it, no one can fix it,” 2D says despairingly. “But we've got to stop doing this shit over and over. We've got to do things differently. We've got to-”

“Got to what?”

“I don't know,” 2D admits. “But we've got to try.”

2D takes a step towards Murdoc and looks like he doubts his decision as soon as he's made it. Murdoc staggers forward to meet him.

“I'll try.” Murdoc doesn't understand what he's agreeing to. The thought makes him cry harder. “I'll try trying.”

“Okay,” 2D murmurs. They stand, barely a foot apart, Murdoc still clutching himself, 2D's expression desolate. 2D eventually closes the distance by wrapping his arms around Murdoc. Murdoc rests his forehead against 2D's shoulder. The water laps against the pier. The seagulls shriek. In time, their crying slows, then stops.

“And you wonder why I don't share more,” Murdoc tries joking, voice hoarse. “Bet you wish you hadn't asked now.”

Murdoc almost feels the ghost of a breath against his crown, the start of a “yes”.

“It's a lot to deal with,” 2D says.

“What? Me?”

“Yeah.”

A weight settles in Murdoc's chest.

“Knowing I'm the only person you've got, the only one you want.”

“I know,” Murdoc says apologetically.

“What're we gonna do?” 2D asks softly. Murdoc forces himself to come up with a plan.

“Let's go back to the hotel.”

He feels 2D nod as he lets him go. Murdoc spots 2D's tooth on the pier and 2D looks to see what's caught his attention.

“Sod it,” 2D sighs. He toes the tooth under the railing and into the sea. “It doesn't matter.”

They walk back to the hotel in silence, Murdoc feeling his bottom lip threaten to quiver until he screws up his face and silently berates himself. He senses 2D's sidelong looks of concern.

Murdoc walks to the door of 417, a silent suggestion, but 2D shakes his head and gestures him into 415. 2D locks himself in the bathroom and comes out some time later with a clean face and red rimmed eyes. They lie down, 2D staring at the blank television while Murdoc keeps his eyes closed.

“Do you want dinner?” 2D asks.

“Not that hungry, to be honest.”

“Okay.”

“You should eat if you're hungry.”

“Maybe later,” 2D murmurs. Murdoc hears 2D’s breath catch as he considers starting different sentences.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Murdoc keeps his eyes shut.

“If you ever thought I was mocking you, how you felt,” 2D says uneasily. “I wasn't- I didn't mean to.”

“It's fine.”

“I just-”

“You said yourself, we never say what we mean, I can't expect you to know what I'm going on about. I don't know what I'm on about.”

Their next conversation comes later, after Murdoc's opened his eyes and 2D's wound his arm about Murdoc's waist. Apropos of nothing, 2D curses under his breath and pulls out his phone with a mutter of “I forgot it's Sunday.”

“So?”

“I call Mike on Sunday, like a weekly check in,” 2D says as he makes to get off the bed.

“Where're you going?”

“Thought I'd use the other room. We both know the bathroom thing doesn't work.”

“Not when you're on speakerphone, no. Just call him in here, I'll fart around on my phone, I won't bother you.”

With a last, dubious look at Murdoc, 2D dials.

“What time d'you call this Pot?” Murdoc hears Mike ask, clear as day, since 2D's holding the phone to his ear nearest Murdoc.

2D checks his watch. “9.06.”

“Very shoddy,” Mike teases. “How you been?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“How's beautiful Detroit?”

2D's gaze slides over to Murdoc. “Gorgeous as ever.”

“You alright? Did I interrupt something?”

“He's distracted ‘cause I'm here,” Murdoc says in the direction of the phone. 2D covers the microphone and glares at him.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, got the telly on.”

“No he doesn't,” Murdoc pipes up.

“That's Murdoc, isn't it?” Murdoc hears how Mike's voice turns cooler with the question.

“No it's not,” 2D insists as Murdoc calls “Indeed it is”.

“Let me talk to him,” Mike and Murdoc say in near unison. 2D grimaces and covers the microphone again while Mike continues pestering.

“Don't go asking him about music. He's not into music.”

“I’m capable of talking about other things,” Murdoc grumbles. “I'm gonna get more fags from Tesco. You can use my phone while I'm gone, there's nothing on there that'll shock you. You know the password.”

“Do I?”

Murdoc gives 2D a look.

2D returns it wearily. “Stuart,” he guesses. Murdoc cocks a finger at him. “You really need a hobby besides me and music.”

Murdoc's in no position to argue. He takes the phone and hears Mike clamouring for attention. “One second mate, taking food orders,” Murdoc says into the phone before turning his attention back to 2D. “Want anything beside fags?”

“Maybe some Skips.”

“Weird choice.”

“And a Mars bar. And a can of Tango. Cherry, if they've got it. If not, preference is-”

“Apple then orange, I know.” Murdoc pulls on his jacket and shoes then puts the phone back to his ear, giving 2D a quick wink before heading out.

“Sorry about that, I'm here now.”

“You been drinking? Stu's got hollow legs when he's been drinking.”

“No, just had a,” Murdoc fumbles for words, “busy day. Forgot to have tea.”

“Right,” Mike makes a noise with his lips as he apparently thinks what to say. “Weird this.”

“Very.” Murdoc spots the right street for Tesco and heads down it.

“So we're clear, I know you shag and that.”

“I assumed." At Tesco, Murdoc grabs a shopping basket and looks at the drinks fridge. “I've been told I can't talk to you about music. You must like some stuff.”

“Not much. I'm not big into music.”

“Nothing? Cliff Richard? Blazin' Squad?”

“Are you trying to get me to say Gorillaz?”

“There's no prizes for saying Gorillaz but it wouldn't hurt.”

“I like the station they have on at the gym. Calvin Harris, David Guetta, stuff like that. Drake.”

Murdoc gives the crisps a bewildered look. “I see.”

Mike makes a noise of agreement before going silent.

“You know,” Murdoc locates the Mars bars and throws two in his basket, “I don't think we met, way back when.”

“No, I gave you a wide berth.”

“The photos I've seen, there's always about ten of you with Stu. Which one're you?”

“I'm the one who's double your height and double your weight.”

“Right. Good to put a face to a name." Murdoc finds himself in the toiletries aisle and studies the offering. He can't stifle his laughter when House of Fun starts rattling around his head.

“What's tickled you?” Mike asks suspiciously.

“Just remembered something funny,” Murdoc dismisses as he puts condoms and lube in his basket. He heads for the tills and asks for a twenty pack of Lucky Lungs while the self service tills chatter nearby.

“Where are you?” Mike asks. “Sounds like Tesco.”

“Southend.”

“Southend, Essex?”

“Is there another one?”

“We used to go there as kids. What're you doing in Southend?”

“We're catching up.“

“Did he want to do that?”

Murdoc takes his receipt, shoves it in the carrier bag and walks outside. “How d'you mean?”

“Well he didn't want to go to that island, did he?”

“Did he tell you about that?”

“Why? Is he not allowed to?” Mike needles.

“He can do whatever he wants.”

“Now. Not then he couldn't.” Mike scoffs. “It's like another world.”

“What is?”

“Famous people. If I did half of what you do, I'd never get out of jail.”

Murdoc stares down the deserted high street, unsure of what he's looking at or for. “David said something similar."

“S'it any wonder? That's his kid.”

“His thirty seven year old kid.”

“Don't matter,” Mike insists. Murdoc hears him sigh. “So what’re you doing after Southend?”

“Dunno. Still thinking about it.”

“Tell him to come visit Crawley. I'll text him too.”

“Alright.”

“You know, Stu told me he was working on being saner. You might want to give that a go.”

Murdoc's brow knits. “Not that it's any of your business mate, but yeah, I am doing. Is that everything?”

“I think so. Just, if you pull any of that bollocks again-”

“You'll test your theory about normal people feeling the full weight of the law?” Murdoc guesses.

“I'd be sorely tempted to. Good talking Murdoc,” Mike says in a tone that makes it obvious the opposite is true.

“Yeah, good to t-” The call ends and Murdoc looks blankly at the phone screen for a moment. He turns to consider the hulking shadow of the hotel but carries on up the high street instead, passing overflowing bins, shuttered shops and homeless people bedding down for the night.

Murdoc's gotten as far as the train station when Me texts:

_where u gone?_

_Having a walk._ He replies. _Clearing my head._

_u ok? hows mike?_

_Fine._

_sure?_

_Yes._

_youre not going anywhere?_

_My car keys are in the room. I'm not going anywhere. Just getting some air._

_im tired gonna go to bed soon_

_What about your Skips? There's a vending machine in the reception if you need something to eat now._

_im fine - see u in the morning?_

_Of course._

Murdoc does a loop of the town centre, footsteps echoing off the buildings. He smokes as he wanders, replaying the call with Mike and trying to remember the one with David. His mind slips back to the pier and 2D's apology and he wishes he'd bought something to drink.

His feet feel compressed from the day's walking when he pulls off his boots in 415 some time after midnight. 2D is snoring softly, grazed chin yellowing with a bruise. Murdoc sets the Tesco carrier bag on 2D's bedside table and places the can of Tango in his eyeline. He strips down to his pants and climbs in beside him. When sleep doesn't come, he opens Maps on 2D's phone and starts looking at the coast.

*

Murdoc wakes to the sound of cellophane crinkling. He rolls over and sees 2D unwrapping the lube box.

2D glances down at him as he pulls the lube out, a puzzled if amused look on his face. “I said cherry Tango, not cherry lube.”

“I got both.”

“Why cherry?”

“The lube selection’s limited at Tesco Express.”

“I can imagine,” 2D says, tone laced with humour. Murdoc sits up and they look at one another, 2D holding the lube, Murdoc keeping his expression as neutral as possible. Their lips twitch as they wait for the other to crack first. 2D loses, bowing his head as he grins, missing tooth on show.

“Got a hinge that needs oiling?”

“Is that a euphemism?” Murdoc leers.

2D laughs. “Idiot.”

“It's like the scouts say: be prepared. And I dunno, hope springs eternal?”

“Didn't know the scouts said that.”

2D sets the lube on the bed and turns Murdoc by his shoulder to kiss him. 2D's morning breath is improved by the chemical aftertaste of the Tango. They kiss, slow and sleepy, until 2D murmurs against Murdoc's lips. “Ask me how many men I've slept with.”

Murdoc's breath catches. He forces a smirk. “How many men have you slept with?”

“Two,” 2D says with obvious satisfaction. He holds Murdoc's jaw and drags him into another, hungrier kiss.

Murdoc breaks it with a slightly strained laugh. “A hundred percent increase? Calm it down Casanova.”

“I let him fuck me,” 2D breathes against Murdoc's lips, watching Murdoc intently for his reaction.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Murdoc whispers.

“Is it working?”

“Do you care if it is?” Murdoc counters. 2D gives him an unreadable smile. “Did you like it?”

“It was alright.”

“Phwoar. Sounds amazing.”

“I dunno, I wasn't as relaxed as I could’ve been.” Murdoc waits for 2D to continue. “I wouldn't rule out having another go.”

“Don't do summat if you don't want to,” Murdoc says. “I do have an idea, though. How clean’re you?”

2D's eyebrows knit. “I haven't got clap, if that's what you mean.”

“No, how clean's your arsehole?”

“Fucking hell, Murdoc,” 2D gripes, running a hand down his face as he flushes.

“Plus we didn't eat much yesterday-”

“Stop fucking talking, Jesus,” 2D snaps as he turns redder. Murdoc can't help chuckling.

“What? You can't leave anything to chance when you're tossing salad.”

Emotions flit across 2D's face in quick succession, the chief of which seems to be curiosity. He settles for shaking his head.

“I can't believe we're having this conversation.”

“I know, must be your lucky day,” Murdoc jokes, earning him a teasing shove in the chest. “Go have a shower, have a good clean back there, then we'll see if we can do better than “alright”.”

2D clambers out of bed with a sigh. He emerges later, towel around his waist, still shaking his head in an apparent combination of embarrassment and amusement. He lets Murdoc pull the towel off and manoeuvre him high enough up the bed to let Murdoc lie between his thighs, legs dangling off the end. Murdoc holds 2D's thighs in either hand, thumbs stroking, while 2D seemingly tries to suffocate himself in the pillow. Murdoc chuckles and places a kiss on 2D's backside.

“You don't need to be so concerned, I'm not planning to bite anything.”

The words are enough to get 2D looking over his shoulder in alarm. “Better fucking not.”

Murdoc spreads 2D's cheeks and the man buries his face in the pillow again. Tongue good and wet, Murdoc proceeds to lick his hole gently up and down. He feels how 2D's thighs tense and starts lapping different shapes until 2D begins to relax. Murdoc hears 2D’s breath hitch as he presses his tongue against his hole and reaches down to stroke 2D’s balls with one hand. 2D lets out a low moan.

“How's it going?” Murdoc asks quietly. 2D looks back at him hazily, cheeks still flushed.

“S'good,” he admits in a gravelly voice. Murdoc goes back to work, kissing and licking until 2D's hips are canting against the mattress and Murdoc's forced to grind against the bed too. He makes a blind grab for the lube, fumbling the lid off and warming some lube between his fingers before circling 2D's hole. 2D lifts his head enough to nod raggedly.

“Do it,” 2D garbles. Murdoc carefully works a slicked finger inside him, easing it in and out until he feels 2D relax. Murdoc crooks his finger experimentally and, after some trial and error, hears 2D groan into the pillow. The sound has Murdoc gasping.

“More, yeah,” 2D urges. Murdoc coats two fingers and obliges as he grinds against the bed. 2D keens, lifting his hips to meet the rhythm of Murdoc's fingers.

“You should fuck me,” 2D says breathlessly, words muffled by his forearm. Murdoc rests his hand on 2D's leg and wills 2D to look back at him. It takes a moment but 2D does, clearly uneasy at his own admission. Murdoc gives his thigh an encouraging stroke.

“What'd you say?”

“Y'should fuck me,” 2D says, barely louder. Murdoc guides him onto his side, grabs the condom box from the bedside table and starts fumbling with the cellophane. 2D looks back at him, puzzled by the delay.

“Why didn't you unwrap these too?” Murdoc grouses and 2D laughs.

“Need a hand?”

“No, got it, got it." Murdoc yanks the box open, tears off a condom, rips it open, works it on. He settles himself behind 2D, practically shaking with anticipation as he runs his hand down the man's back. 2D shivers. Murdoc grabs the lube and coats the condom generously before taking himself in hand and teasing 2D's hole with the head. 2D whines at the sensation.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” 2D pants and Murdoc pushes slowly in, head bowed against 2D's shoulder. He feels 2D hold his breath for a moment before sighing, hand reaching back to grip Murdoc's thigh. Murdoc starts rocking into him shallowly, pelvis flush to 2D's backside as he fists 2D's cock in time with the roll of his hips.

“Oh, fuck, Murdoc.” 2D's hand grips tighter as he looks back at Murdoc, eyes heavy lidded. Murdoc buries his face in 2D's neck, mouthing the over-warm skin.

It's unhurried and sleepy. The sun sneaks under the black out curtains and bathes the floor by the bed. They punctuate the silence with the sound of skin on skin and the tap of the headboard against the wall. 2D comes first, breathless and shaking. He keeps his hand on Murdoc's thigh, making sounds of encouragement as Murdoc pulls him closer, arm about 2D's chest as he shudders through his own climax, mouthing nonsense words against 2D's neck. Murdoc catches his breath before pulling out, tying the condom and dropping it in the bin by the desk. 2D eases himself onto his other side to face him, embarrassment lurking behind the sated pleasure in his slackened features. Murdoc does his best to kiss it away and feels 2D sigh against his lips.

“Yeah,” 2D says at length, barely a whisper. “That was better than alright.”

“Good,” Murdoc says earnestly. 2D closes his eyes and Murdoc watches him for a moment before speaking.

“How about Margate?”

2D cracks open one eye. “What about Margate?”

“For the festival. It's just up the coast, looks a bit cool nowadays, if the internet's telling the truth. Or is it illegal for you to set foot in Kent since you're an honorary Essex boy?”

2D gives it some thought. “Did they reopen Dreamland? I know they've been talking about it.”

Murdoc grabs 2D’s phone from his bedside table and reloads the website for the theme park. “They did. They've even put in an outdoor stage.”

2D takes his phone from Murdoc and taps around the website. His face lights up as he reads. Clearly sensing Murdoc's interest, 2D shuffles up next to him and shows him photos of a carousel ride with motorcycle shaped steeds.

“Look at that beauty,” 2D practically coos. “That's from the thirties. Early thirties I reckon. Obviously the bikes aren't original, I bet they had animals or something back in the day. It's a gorgeous restoration job. Must cost a bob or two to keep it going, not to mention you've got to find someone who can work on something that old.” He spots Murdoc's bewilderment and gives him a wry smile. “I'm boring the bollocks off you.”

“But you're very easy on the eye,” Murdoc jokes, giving 2D's leg a squeeze. “So: muesli then Margate?”

“What about Wobble Street?”

“It can wait,” Murdoc says softly. His instinct is to swallow down the rest of his sentence. He tries trying instead. “If this is something you want, I want you to have it.”

2D smiles to himself as he opens Spotify on his phone.

“What're you doing?” Murdoc asks.

“Starting a playlist for the drive,” 2D beams.

*

Murdoc plugs the address for Dreamland into Maps.

“About two hours’ drive,” Murdoc says. “Think you can keep us in good music that long?”

2D looks him square in the eye as he presses play. The gospel choir on Road To Nowhere starts singing. Murdoc kisses him hard before starting the engine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the latest instalment! Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like.
> 
> P. S. there's likely to be a longer wait between this chapter and the next, but rest assured I'm working on it.


	21. 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men in a B&B. 
> 
> Featuring a Very 2Doc Christmas, crafty grans and school dinners. 
> 
> Warnings for sex, (brief) discussion of child sexual abuse and general weirdness. The name use has been checked and is always intentional (this will make sense when you start reading).

Murdoc's never seen so much sky. He tries not to gawp as he looks out over the front but his thoughts slip out anyway. 

“I didn't know England could look like this. I guess Turner was onto something.”

“Ike? Tina?”

Murdoc gives 2D a withering look. 

“The artist Turner, idiot.”

“Oh,” 2D takes a drag on his cigarette and makes a noise of recognition. “That's why it looks familiar.”

“Uncultured swine.”

“I forget, what's Turner's first name?” 2D asks faux nonchalantly. Murdoc opens and closes his mouth as a smug smile spreads on 2D's face. Murdoc flips 2D off before jerking his head at the brick tower down the street proclaiming “DREAMLAND”. 

“Want to take a look?” 

“Sure.”

The theme park walks a precarious line between pretentiously curated and playfully renovated. They stop at the near empty motorcycle ride, the Speedway, and 2D buys tickets. Murdoc's adamant he's not going on the ride until he spots the name of one bike. 

“Fine, I'll have a go,” he says as he snatches the proffered tickets, already laughing coarsely as 2D looks on, perplexed, “provided I get to ride Stuart.” 2D spots Stuart the bike and scowls unconvincingly at Murdoc.

“If you must.”

Murdoc must. 2D takes the bike in front of Stuart and turns around repeatedly to shoot amused glares at Murdoc while Murdoc guffaws. They use all of their tickets on the Speedway and while Murdoc feels like he's on a spin cycle, it's no worse than the average bender. 2D's grinning face stands out sharply against the wintery rainbow of the theme park blurring behind them. 

After they've had a look at the outdoor stage, they grab their suitcases from Murdoc's car and wheel them along the front. Despite its proximity, Margate bears little resemblance to Southend. They encounter fewer arcades, a jetty instead of a monstrous pier, a Tate art gallery and sophisticated looking bistros. They stop when they reach a nondescript bed and breakfast with a vacancies sign close to the art gallery. 

A portly woman with a messy white bun opens the door and does a hastily suppressed double take. 

“Afternoon,” Murdoc says. “We saw you had a vacancy.”

“Yes! Come in, come in.” They set their suitcases down in the well scrubbed hall and stand awkwardly close after the owner shuts the door.

“I'm Maureen, welcome to The Beach.”

“Martin,” Murdoc offers effortlessly, clasping Maureen's hand and spotting how 2D's brow threatens to furrow. “Martin Penney.”

2D lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh before giving Maureen's hand a quick shake. 

“Stewart Payne.”

“What brings you to Margate?”

“I sell musical instruments door to door,” Murdoc invents after a second's thought. “Stewart's a piano tuner I work with.”

2D and Maureen give him bemused looks. 

“We have two rooms free if you're not-” Maureen begins diplomatically.

“In this economy? We can't afford two rooms-” Murdoc protests, only for 2D to force a laugh and put his arm around Murdoc's waist. Murdoc tries not to react. 

“We're partners,” 2D explains with a smile. “Martin just likes to joke. One room's fine.”

They trade fleeting looks: a proposition and an acceptance. 

“Sorry, I've got a daft sense of humour,” Martin smiles. “One room's plenty, unless there's an issue with,” he gestures between himself and Stewart. 

“Not at all, not at all,” Maureen insists. “We had a lovely lesbian couple this summer. Margate's very modern nowadays, you get all sorts. Are you here on holiday?”

“Yeah, taking some time out,” Martin agrees. 

“How long were you looking to stay?”

“A week,” Stewart says.

“That's fine. We've got vacancies ‘til Christmas. Let me grab the keys for room three.” Maureen disappears briefly into a room marked “Staff Only” then leads them upstairs. The room is white walled and spacious, with well worn green wingback chairs pointed at balcony doors and a view of the sea and sky. A metal framed bed faces a blocked off fireplace on the opposite wall. 

“It's ensuite,” Maureen opens the bathroom door so they can poke their heads inside. “Fifty pound a night including breakfast. You can pay at the end of the week if that suits.”

“Perfect, thanks,” Martin says, setting their suitcases down. 

“Wonderful.” Maureen hands them each a set of keys. “The big one's for your room, the yale's for the front door, we lock it at ten. For breakfast there's cereals, yoghurt, fruit and juices in the breakfast room, help yourself to those. We also do a cooked breakfast. There's a clipboard on the hall table: the night before, write down what you'd like next to your room number - how many sausage, toast, bacon, beans, no beans and so on - and what time you'd like it and we'll have it ready and waiting for you.”

“That's a clever system,” Stewart says. “I've not come across that before.”

“Saves time and food,” Maureen agrees. “Breakfast is seven to nine on weekdays and seven to ten on the weekends.” She pats a ringbinder sat on a chest of drawers. “The WiFi code's in there, along with some bits and bobs about the area. Is there anything else I can do for you now?”

“I think we're good thanks,” Stewart smiles. 

“Well, if you think of anything more, me or my husband John is usually in the kitchen so just knock.”

“Thanks Maureen,” Martin says. Maureen gives them a nod and shuts the door behind her. 

“Not very creative, “Stuart”,” Murdoc comments wryly.

“I'm spelling it with an e w.”

They share a smirk, 2D’s self-satisfied, Murdoc's grudgingly amused. 

“Why couldn't we just be us?” 2D asks as he stands at the balcony doors, surveying the front. Murdoc picks up the ringbinder and leafs through it. 

“Because we're sharing a room. Do you miss the paparazzi?”

“We haven't released an album in five, six years practically,” 2D points out, making Murdoc grimace. “They've forgotten all about us.”

“I think hearing about seaside shags'd still titillate them.”

2D turns and quirks an eyebrow. 

“Who said anything about seaside shags?”

“How's your arse this morning?” Murdoc retorts. “You sitting down alri-” 2D grabs a cushion from one wingback chair and chucks it at Murdoc, who dodges it with a shit eating grin. 

“Keep it up and it'll be you and your hand tonight.”

“Alright Pink. Let's not be too hasty.”

“Martin'd never say stuff like that,” 2D jokes. “He's a class act.”

“Speaking of: we need a backstory.”

“Yeah, Maureen's bound to ask. B&B owners,” 2D cracks open the door to check the hall, closes it and continues. “B&B owners are nosy sods.”

Murdoc considers a moment longer. 

“Stewart's a mechanic.”

“That works, I can talk about cars.”

“I know. Always pick a lie based on the truth, it's easier to sustain. Martin crashed his car, Stewart fixed it.”

“Martin fell in love on the spot,” 2D adds. 

Murdoc makes a point of pretending to read the contents of the ringbinder, flipping through pages of restaurant recommendations and details of doctors surgeries. 

“Something like that. Stewart took longer realising because he's on the slow side.”

2D's expression sours. 

“Stewart didn't give Martin his number, he's not that desperate.”

“No, but Stewart knew Martin was going places. Martin drives a Jag,” Murdoc embellishes. “Martin came back a few months later for his MOT.”

“What's Martin do for a living?”

“Professional poker player.”

2D shoots him an unimpressed look. 

“How're you going to sustain-”

“Martin plays HORSE. He mostly plays online tournaments but he's done some live ones. He's strongest at Omaha, weakest at Razz. He's prone to going on tilt when he's lost a few hands. He-”

“Alright, alright, point made.”

“Stewart was so allured by the promise of a jet set lifestyle that he dropped everything to follow Martin.”

“Then Stewart turned out to be a natural at HORSE and beat Martin at his own game.”

“Fuck off, you can't beat me at poker. Bet you don't even know what a nut flush is.” 2D makes to respond and Murdoc holds up a halting hand. “No ball jokes.”

“We're not talking about us,” 2D points out with a mean smile. “We're talking about Martin and Stewart.”

“Right. Stewart's losing his hair.”

2D's face turns momentarily thunderous. 

“Martin can't always get it up.”

“Neither can Stewart.”

“Stewart's on medication.”

“So's Martin.”

2D's shoulders sag. 

“Truce?” He holds out his hand. 

“Truce.” Murdoc shakes it, gripping harder than necessary while 2D's eyes rove over him. 

“If you're worried about paparazzi, you need to look less like yourself.”

“How'd I do that? I'm not joining your skinhead gang.”

2D's already unzipping his suitcase. He passes Murdoc a black short sleeved shirt, a pair of shapeless blue chinos and a tan belt. 

“Put those on.”

Murdoc holds the trousers level with his nipples and the legs still threaten to drag on the floor. 

“We can turn the cuffs up a bit,” 2D says, rummaging in Murdoc's suitcase. “Or a lot.”

Murdoc gets changed, doing his best to maintain judgmental eye contact with 2D throughout. 2D tucks the shirt into the trousers for him and undos one, then two, shirt buttons. He takes off his St Christopher's medallion and passes it to Murdoc to wear. Murdoc grudgingly takes off his cross and dons the medallion instead. 2D pilfers the cross and slips it on. 

“Looking sharp,” 2D says approvingly as he pulls off his t-shirt in favour of a stripey top of Murdoc's. Murdoc rolls the trouser cuffs enough that they bunch. He slips his boots back on and opens the bathroom door. They look at themselves in the mirror over the sink. 

“I look an absolute cunt,” Murdoc declares. “Can I do up a button? My tits are hanging out.”

2D grins at their reflections as he plays with a hole near the stripey shirt's collar. 

“You'll ruin the look if you do that.”

“Heaven forbid.”

2D considers Murdoc and Murdoc tenses at the attention. Thoughtfully, 2D reaches out and gives his hair a muss. Murdoc fleetingly considers his reflection and how the old bastard looks less like a Bootleg Beatle. 

“You look good,” 2D says. “I'd fuck you.”

“You do fuck me,” Murdoc smirks, shutting the bathroom door and pulling 2D into a kiss, hands on 2D’s waist. 

“And I'm doin’ it and doin’ it and doin’ it well,” 2D agrees, one hand playing with his medallion on Murdoc's chest. He spots Murdoc's blank look.

“Missy Elliot. I'm Really Hot.”

“I'm not taking the bait,” Murdoc grumbles. “You're the world's whitest man, aren't you-”

“Stewart with an e w,” 2D preemptively corrects. “Come off it Martin, you're chronically Caucasian.”

“D'you think Stewart and Martin are nice to one another?” Murdoc muses. 

“I thought lies had to be based on truth to be plausible.”

Murdoc cups 2D’s nape and drags him into another kiss. 

“We probably can't have sex while we're here,” 2D points out. Murdoc's brow knits. 

“Why not? Maureen seems fine with it.”

“Well, not loud sex. Building's old, the walls are probably thin.”

“Fine: missionary, lights off. Quiet, respectful sex.”

2D pulls a face. 

“Lights on. Missionary’ll put your back out, old man.”

Murdoc doesn't bother disagreeing. “We probably can't write music either, if you're worried about noise.”

They lock up and head downstairs. 

“It's only a week while we scope out the festival,” 2D says. “We'll survive.”

“What's that about a festival?” Murdoc gives him a meaningful look. 

2D seems momentarily confused before making, then stifling, a noise of understanding. 

“We're just on holiday,” Stewart agrees. 

“We should go for a stroll on the front. The binder said you can walk all the way to Ramsgate, home of the Mega Spoons.”

Martin makes to step outside but spots the clipboard on the hall table and scribbles his breakfast order before handing it to Stewart. 

““Five mushrooms, one and a half bacon, two tablespoons of beans”,” Stewart reads out. “You'll be lucky if you aren't wearing your breakfast.”

“I'm testing how precise their system is.”

“You're testing everyone's patience,” Stewart mutters as he crosses out Martin's order and writes another. Martin reads it over his shoulder. 

“Good order,” he commends. Stewart slips his arm about Martin's waist and gives his cheek a quick kiss. 

“I know what you like,” Stewart agrees suggestively. Martin trails him outside dazedly. 

After orienting themselves with their phones, Martin and Stewart start along the concrete walkway to Ramsgate. 

“It's a few hours’ walk,” Martin warns. “The folder said it's about eight miles.”

Stewart looks briefly unimpressed before sporting a sunny smile. 

“That's alright. We're used to nice long walks, we're ramblers.”

Murdoc gives him an unconvinced look. 

“Plausibility, D.”

“Fine, they're not ramblers,” 2D concedes. “But they could be when they're older and they've stopped tearing around in Martin's Jag.”

“We don't need a retirement plan for these two.”

“We don't need to stay in character when Maureen's not around, either,” 2D rejoins. 

“Agreed. You sure you're up to the walk? I'm not giving you a piggyback if you can't make it. I'll let the tide take you.”

“Why're you so confident you'll make it?”

“I do a fair bit of walking.”

“When? Where?”

“Did a lot of walking around Hammersmith.”

“Why?”

“Nothing better to do.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Murdoc scowls. “You done with your interrogation?”

“I'm just taking an interest,” 2D says, openly annoyed. “It's actually pretty normal to take an interest when you're-”

“When you're what?”

2D shoots him a daring look so Murdoc supplies “fucking?”

“Gently,” 2D agrees. Murdoc snorts a laugh. 

“Tenacious D? Very topical.” 

“I bet Martin and Stewart talk about the small stuff,” 2D says with a hint of bitterness.

“And that's lovely for them,” Murdoc agrees tersely. They walk in uncomfortable silence until they pass their third piece of fart themed graffiti (“YOUR FART WAS COOL”). 

“Martin would ask Stewart why there's so much fart graffiti,” Murdoc observes, “I'm indifferent.”

“See a lot of fart graffiti in Hammersmith?” 2D asks casually. 

“Tripping over it.”

“Bloody Banksy.”

Murdoc bursts into laughter and 2D walks closer by his side, grinning at his own joke. 

Their steps are sluggish by the time they reach the Wetherspoons. They slump into chairs at an upstairs table and have a tired fight about who should go to the bar to order. 2D cracks first, returning with a Strongbow and a Stella. Their jacket potato with chilli and burger and chips arrive soon afterwards. 

“I was going to let the battered sausage slide,” Murdoc says, fanning his jacket potato in a bid to cool its contents, “but Sober 2D’s slipped up again. What if the Buddhists catch wind of this? They'll never forgive you.”

2D slows his chewing. When he talks, his half-eaten mouthful is on obnoxious display. 

“Stewart with an e w eats meat.” 2D points a warning finger. “No blowjob jokes.”

“Oh, so you were preemptively getting into character in Southend? Very Daniel Day-Lewis of you.”

2D reaches across the table to straighten his medallion on Murdoc's chest, smile wide and sarcastic. 

“I hope you choke.”

Murdoc leans forward so he can reach a finger under the collar of his stripey top on 2D and unearth his necklace. He straightens his cross on 2D's chest. 

“I hope you do a Brian Molko.”

When 2D looks confused, Murdoc elaborates by giving his own - thick, abundant - hair a ruffle. 2D leans back in his chair, scowling as he throws a chip at Murdoc. 

“You're enjoying the balding jokes, aren't you?”

“Stu.” Murdoc flicks the chip from his lap onto the busy carpet. “You're a looker. Let me have this one.”

2D takes an unnecessarily vicious bite of his burger and chews moodily. 

“Your back's hairy.”

“No it's not.”

“It's not,” 2D admits, sounding disappointed. 

“Quit your bellyaching.”

“Only if you go to the bar and order dessert. I need more calories for the trek back.”

“What'd your last slave die of?”

“It's only fair, I ordered the mains.”

“I'm not having dessert. I don't do dessert,” Murdoc says, washing away the words with his cider. 

“Martin would order for Stewart.”

“Martin's a soft touch.”

“Martin's getting a nice, long, respectful shag tonight.”

Murdoc's glower grows as 2D's faux sweet smile stretches. Murdoc drags himself up from the table and heads for the bar. 

*

Martin and Stewart leave their room at five minutes to nine the next day. Their footsteps on the stairs prompt a “morning!” from behind the Staff Only door. Maureen emerges, metal teapot in hand. 

“Morning Maureen,” they say. 

“Did you sleep well?”

“Very well thanks,” Stewart smiles. The breakfast room is empty, though one table has the remains of a breakfast on it. Maureen ushers them to the already laden table in the bay window and sets the teapot down in front of Stewart as she surveys the spread. 

“Are you missing anything?”

Martin and Stewart consider their plates and shake their heads. 

“Looks right to me,” Martin says. “Thank you Maureen.”

“Looks great,” Stewart adds. “Do you make the breakfasts?”

“Oh no, I'm terrible, I could burn water. John's our resident chef.”

“Pass on our compliments,” Martin says as Maureen begins bussing the other table. 

“I will,” Maureen beams. “So what are your plans for the day?”

Martin and Stewart share a thoughtful look. 

“I'm not sure,” Stewart admits. “Perhaps have a wander around Margate. We walked to Ramsgate yesterday.”

“That's a long walk. Very nice though.”

“Yeah, we enjoyed it. Botany Bay's beautiful.”

“It is. If you go back to Ramsgate you should visit Solak's Fish Bar. Owners are Turkish, they make all their own seasonings and salads, it's the best fish and chip shop in Thanet if you ask me.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, we'll have to check it out.”

Maureen gives them an approving smile as she leaves with her hands full of used crockery. 

“Should we call Noodle and Russ?” Murdoc asks. 

“Why would we do that?”

“To table the Margate idea, show them Dreamland.”

2D frowns as he thinks. “What if they say no?”

Murdoc stays silent, clearly expecting 2D to elaborate. 

“S’better to just plan it. Seek forgiveness, not permission.”

“Why wouldn't they agree?” 

“Because we have a track record for fucking up tours.”

Murdoc hums his agreement. “Maybe Margate will lift the curse.”

2D goes back to eating his fried egg. He senses Murdoc debating whether to ask further questions and glances up in acknowledgment. 

“Have you heard from either of them?” 

“Have you?” 2D counters. 

Murdoc shakes his head as he slices his hash brown. Maureen returns with fresh cutlery and mugs for the other table. 

“The weather's nice for November, isn't it?” she asks conversationally. “It's very mild for the time of year. It's usually wetter than this.”

“We've timed it right then,” Stewart says with a distracted smile. He looks at Martin as he speaks and gives him a pointed nod. Martin's expression turns grave as he takes to studying his food. 

Murdoc and 2D head into the town centre after breakfast and wander aimlessly down shopping streets which mix identikit high street stores with hipster boutiques. 2D walks them into a Caffe Costa and they get drinks to go. The sight of 2D's peppermint hot chocolate with cream and sprinkles causes Murdoc's expression to pinch. 

“It's a wonder you've got any teeth left.”

“It's nice,” 2D insists, holding his drink out for Murdoc to try. Murdoc shakes his head curtly and has some of his filter coffee instead. 

They stop in front of a large antiques store whose contents spill out onto the pavement. 2D walks around the old theme park vehicles for sale and studies the log flume logs and dodgems. He spots an old funhouse mirror propped against the wall and looks at his even skinnier reflection, legs concertina-like. Under 2D’s half open leather jacket, Murdoc's cross looks warped, bleeding into the misshapen logo of the Aerosmith t-shirt. 

“How did Stewart lose his front teeth?” 2D tilts his head and his reflection buckles and shrinks. 

“Maureen's not asked, what's it matter?”

“Just wondering,” 2D shrugs. 

Murdoc comes to stand beside him. The patch of bare chest visible under 2D's pink V-neck stretches absurdly in the mirror, medallion melting with it. Murdoc's look of irritation stretches hideously in the reflection and 2D turns to face the man instead. A thought makes Murdoc's eyes spark. 

“Let's ask them,” Murdoc says. 

““Them”?”

“Martin and Stewart.”

“You make it sound like we're communing with spirits.”

“C'mon, it'll be like Hollywood again,” Murdoc gives his fringe a thorough ruffle before giving 2D an uncharacteristically soft smile. 2D has another sip of his hot chocolate before sending a weary look skyward. Decision made, Stewart meets Martin's eye with a similarly sweet smile. 

“I knocked my tooth out when I fell out of that tree when I was little. I must have told you that before,” Stewart says, playfully admonishing, “we've been together eighteen years.” Martin's eyes widen at the number.

“The time's flown,” Martin says distractedly. “My memory's not what it used to be.”

“I mean, we haven't been together the whole eighteen years of course,” Stewart concedes, tone turning harsher. “It's been off and on.”

Martin's expression goes from sunny to disappointed. “We're off and on?”

2D lets himself scowl. “Is Martin a bloody amnesiac?”

“You're throwing me some fucking curveballs,” Murdoc gripes. “Least I didn't break character. This is why we couldn't make a movie, you don't commit.”

“Sorry, hang on: how was I not committed to the movie?”

“All those television and ad roles you were offered,” Murdoc begins and 2D lets out a sigh of frustration.

“Chrissake, how do you still care about that? You’re the one who drained our bank accounts and buggered off.”

Murdoc finishes his coffee and wanders to a bin to throw away the cup. 

“That old chestnut,” he says sarcastically on his return. “Fine. You want commitment? I'll give you bloody commitment.”

He fixes a mockery of a loving smile on his face, eyes hard and sharp. 

“I'm sorry Stewart,” Martin simpers, “of course I know we've been off and on. I just don't like to bring it up, I know you're sensitive about it.” Stewart makes to respond but Martin carries on. “About all the women you've slept with, trying to kid yourself you don't like men.”

2D feels himself start to shake. He walks slowly to the bin to dump the rest of his drink, mouth suddenly woolly from all the sugar and cream. He doesn't walk back to Murdoc's side, electing to face the empty road instead. 

“It's alright sweetheart,” Martin coos at his back. “I know it's hard for you, but we've gotten through all your little slip ups and look at us now, happily marri-”

“TRUCE!” 2D roars, whipping around. Two women window shopping further down the street startle at the sound so 2D storms over to Murdoc's side to hiss “truce, fucking truce Murdoc!”

If Murdoc's shocked at his reaction, he recovers quickly. 

“What? I'm not talking about us.” There's something sharp in Murdoc's sneer that says he knows he's on a hiding to nothing. “I'm talking about Mart-”

“Don't,” 2D spits out. “Don't be ridiculous. If you've got something to say, for once in your life, just say it.” He doesn't give Murdoc the chance to speak. “I know it doesn't make sense, I know that! My parents don't have a problem with it, Mike doesn't have a problem with it-”

“Their problem's with me, not “it”,” Murdoc cuts across. 2D makes no effort to disagree. 

“Half the fucking fans seem to be praying for it. It's just me who's got the problem. And I don't even know why. I just,” 2D runs a hand over the stubble on his scalp, shaking his head weakly. “This isn't what I wanted from my life.”

Murdoc's expression visibly falls. 

“This isn't who I thought I was, this isn't it,” 2D says softly, mostly to himself. Murdoc alternates between chancing glances at him and looking at the ground. Eventually, Murdoc offers him a nod. 2D thinks of apologising or trying to explain but he's still quivering with anger as he weighs his options. 

“You're thinking about leaving, aren't you?” Murdoc asks, though it's barely a question. 

“Yeah, I am.”

Murdoc gives the pavement another nod. 2D lets out a ragged sigh, sending the funhouse mirror a last, hard look before forcing himself to continue down the street, Murdoc silent at his side. 2D leads them mindlessly into CeX, heads for the wall housing rack after rack of second hand CDs and starts mindlessly thumbing through the artists starting with Z. Murdoc heads to the other end of the display and begins working his way up from A. They give each other sidelong looks as they draw closer. 2D's gotten to S when he spots Murdoc blankly staring at a Peter Gabriel album. 2D puts The Greatest Hits of Nancy Sinatra back and walks over to Murdoc's side. They stand in uneasy silence for a time before 2D swallows against the dryness in his throat and speaks. 

“Tell me about the wedding.” Murdoc gives him a questioning look so he adds, “I've not got amnesia Martin, you just tell it better.”

Murdoc's eyes are overly bright as he forces a fond smile on his face. 

“It wasn’t long after they changed the law. We'd already been together so long, we didn't want to wait,” Martin reminisces in little more than a whisper. “It wasn't anything showy, just family and a few friends at Crawley register office. I wore white.”

2D smiles as tears prick his eyes. 

“Did Elton John officiate?”

Murdoc takes a second to register his words before blanching. 

“You heard me say that?”

“Your voice carries,” 2D says wryly, giving his eyes a rub as his tears start to spill. “Keep going Martin.”

“We had the reception in the function room of our favourite pub-”

“The Drunken Monkey,” Stewart provides and Martin nods, blinking hard to keep from crying. 

“Mike did a reading,” Martin says, “had everyone crying. He's a bit of a softie, despite the brick shit house appearance.”

2D grins sadly.

“He really is. He told me Laura's forgotten their anniversary before but he never has.”

“We had breakfast with your mum and dad the next day before we flew out of Gatwick for the honeymoon-”

“In Jamaica.”

They share a sad laugh. 

“We've always gotten on, me and your family,” Martin says, voice a little choked. “They were happy I'd made an honest man of you.”

Stewart pulls Martin into a hug and Martin slumps against him. He feels Martin sigh into his shoulder as he rubs his back. 

“Sounds nice Murdoc,” 2D says when he can trust his voice not to quaver. 

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees. He seems to take a breath to steel himself before forcing out a “sorry I’m a cunt.”

“We're alright,” 2D says, unsure whether it's the truth or optimism. He glances down at the Peter Gabriel CD Murdoc's still holding at his side. 

“You a fan?”

Murdoc looks at the CD again, seemingly registering the artist for the first time. 

“Can't get enough of Sledgehammer,” Murdoc deadpans. “Martin must like him.”

“Plausibility, Murdoc,” 2D chastises jokingly. Murdoc laughs against his shoulder and 2D grips him tighter. 

*

Martin and Stewart eat their pre-ordered breakfasts each morning before Murdoc and 2D make their daily pilgrimage to the Mega Spoons for lunch. They walk it off on the return journey, stopping off in Broadstairs for a drink and a sit down. 

They visit the Shell Grotto museum in Margate one day and 2D insists on buying a tiger cowrie shell with “Margate” painted on it. He puts it on his bedside table and listens to the sea when he can't sleep. 

Martin and Stewart reminisce over breakfast. They remember their trip to New York for their first anniversary, how the airline lost their luggage and they went on a shopping spree in the Forever 21 on Union Square to get new clothes. 

Their nostalgia fills up The Beach and overflows. It follows them along the coastal path, down to Ramsgate, until it takes a particularly incongruous invented memory to bring Murdoc and 2D back to the reality of festival planning or lyric writing. 

On the third day, Stewart folds a towel and drapes it over the headboard to stop it knocking against the wall when they have sex. Martin and Stewart buy second hand books from charity shops and read them in the old wingback chairs, lamenting how early the sun sets in the cavernous sky. On the fifth night, Stewart places the seashell on top of Murdoc and 2D's notebooks like a paperweight and no one bothers to move it. 

When Maureen tactfully asks how they'd like to pay on their final morning, Martin and Stewart ask to extend by a week. Maureen offers to wash their clothes while they're out walking. When they get home, Martin's colourful shirts are hanging in the wardrobe, clean and dry, next to Stewart's uniform of black band t-shirts. 

*

Stewart's finishing his fudge cake after their Wetherspoons lunch when Martin speaks, soft enough to miss. 

“I can't eat dessert.”

Stewart stares at the froth of melted ice cream on his plate. 

“It turns my stomach,” Martin says quietly. 

“Fudge cake?”

“Not fudge cake particularly. Mostly chocolate concrete.” Martin swallows hard, seemingly on the verge of retching. He drinks some of his Strongbow. 

“What's that?”

“It's this really dry chocolate cake. Very sweet.” Martin has another drink, eyes trained on middle distance. “You serve it with custard. It's a school thing.”

Stewart's heart sinks. He sets his empty plate on the table beside theirs.

“I'm not sure I've had it.”

“It's a bit old fashioned,” Martin agrees. Stewart waits for him to continue. “Susan would make it for me at her house.”

Stewart toys with his beer mat. Part of him wills Martin onto another subject. Another part of him hates himself for it. 

“Why did you go to her house?” he asks the tabletop. 

“I was hungry,” Martin says, voice embarrassed and small. He holds his upper arms with either hand, head bowed. A few tears escape Stewart and he roughly rubs them away. 

“It was a relief, starting senior school,” Martin carries on quietly. “Never saw her again.”

Stewart places his hand on the table, palm up. Martin covers it with his own. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It's fine.” Martin squeezes Stewart's hand. “Long time ago.”

“I'm still sorry.”

“Thank you. It's hard, being honest, isn't it?” Martin says to their joined hands, voice cracking, “Stewart with an e w.”

“Yeah,” Stewart agrees around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, it is.”

When they leave the pub, Stewart takes Martin's hand in his and doesn't let go until they’ve made it back to The Beach. 

*

Martin and Stewart perfect their breakfasts, develop usual orders at their favourite cafes. Martin orders mains and drinks at the Mega Spoons and Stewart orders his own desserts. 

They remind one another to take their medication, straighten one another's collars and necklaces, share easy silences. They extend by a week. They extend by a week. They know November has come when it's gone away. 

The Christmas lights go up along the front in Ramsgate, Broadstairs and Margate. Maureen delicately breaks the news that The Beach will be closed from the 19th until the New Year while she and John visit their daughter and her young family in Canterbury.

Murdoc and 2D know they should book flights to Detroit but Martin and Stewart book a final week at a hotel in Margate for Christmas. 

*

Stewart does a double take when he sees Martin's fry up on their final morning at The Beach. The quantities seem off: it's one hash brown short and there are more beans than usual. Stewart's about to comment when a gravelly voice sounds out from the breakfast room doorway. 

“How did I do, Martin?”

Martin looks to John and chuckles while John shakes his head, arms folded. 

“Did you change your order?” Stewart asks with what he hopes is an unimpressed smile.

“When I popped out for a fag last night,” Martin grins. 

“Seven mushrooms, three tomatoes, two and a half tablespoons of beans, etcetera etcetera,” John rattles off, tone laced with amusement. 

“Correct to the letter John, thank you.”

“I aim to please. You've been enjoying Margate? Never had anyone extend as long as you have.”

“It's a lovely place,” Stewart agrees. “It's been a great break.”

“I'm sorry if we've cut it short for you.”

“It's Christmas, completely understand why you're closing,” Stewart dismisses. “We've booked into a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“Botany Boutique.”

“Very nice, very nice indeed. It'll be a step up from The Beach fellas.”

“We've really enjoyed staying here.”

“Glad to hear it,” John smiles. “We've been doing this for twenty five years, you don't keep going if you don't enjoy it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Martin agrees. “Have you been married twenty five years too?”

“No, longer than that. Since,” John screws up his face in thought. “1971, so approaching forty five years. Don't hold me to that. And don't tell Maureen if I've got it wrong.”

“That's amazing,” Stewart grins. 

“How long have you been together? Are you married?” John asks. 

“Together nearly twenty years, married two,” Martin offers. 

“So you've learned the magic words by now, I take it?” John asks, moustache twitching with amusement. ““You're right”?”

They chuckle at that. 

“And people say marriage is hard,” John jokes. “Well, I better make a start on the washing up. I'd say have a safe journey but it's about ten minutes to Botany Boutique from here, I'm sure you'll survive your voyage.”

“Thanks John,” Martin says. “Have a good Christmas.”

“You too.”

They bring down their suitcases after breakfast and Martin gets out his credit card to settle the final week's bill. As Maureen hands him the card reader she makes a noise of apparent recollection. 

“Oh, gentlemen, before you go: I don't suppose I could ask a favour, could I?”

“Sure?” Stewart says, watching as Maureen ducks into the kitchen, returning with a marker pen and a vinyl in a cardboard jacket. With a jolt of surprise, 2D recognises the cover as Demon Days. Murdoc does a fractionally better job of masking his reaction by barking a laugh. 

“My grandson is a massive fan, I'll be in his good books for years if you could sign it,” Maureen explains sheepishly. 

“You're a sly one Maureen,” Murdoc smirks, taking the pen. “What's his favourite song?”

Maureen takes the vinyl back and flips it to read the track listing. 

““Every Planet We Reach Is Dead”,” Maureen reads out. “He likes the piano on that one, he's learning.”

“It's excellent piano,” Murdoc agrees quietly. “What's he called?”

“Sam.”

Murdoc scrawls “Sam - you've got good taste (and a crafty gran) - Murdoc” on the sleeve before handing it to 2D. 2D quickly writes “keep up the keyboard - 2D”. 

“You can't just give him that,” Murdoc says when Maureen’s put the vinyl down on the hall table. “You could have forged it for all Sam knows. You need concrete evidence. Whip your phone out.”

Maureen obliges and Murdoc takes it, opens the camera and puts his arm around Maureen for a selfie, nodding for 2D to stand on her other side. Unsurprisingly, Murdoc poses as though he's about to snog Maureen and she cackles with laughter. Murdoc checks the photos and gives them an approving grunt before passing the phone back. 

“That'll do.” He gives her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the hospitality Maureen.”

“Have a good Christmas,” 2D adds, giving her a brief hug. 

“You too, thank you both.”

They walk to Botany Boutique. A polished young receptionist greets them as they cross the glossy foyer. 

“Good morning gentlemen, welcome to Botany Boutique.”

“Got a room booked ‘til New Years,” Murdoc says, leaning on the counter.

“What's the name of the booking?”

“Penney,” Murdoc all but spits out. “Actually, can you update that? It's really for Murdoc Niccals.”

“That's fine, I'll just need to see identification for Mr Penney before I can update the details,” the receptionist says, clearly attempting to stay cheery in the face of Murdoc's sullen attitude. 

“Well that's not gonna work, sweetheart, because Martin Penney doesn't fucking exist.” Murdoc's teeth are practically bared as he speaks. “Do you seriously not recognise me?” he asks, flattening his fringe roughly, “Murdoc Niccals? Tabloid darling?”

The receptionist stutters out apologies. 2D stands flush to Murdoc's side and gives him a warning look before addressing her. 

“Ignore him. It's fine in the name of Penney. What do I need to pay?”

Still shooting Murdoc the occasional nervous look, the receptionist prints the invoice and hands 2D a card reader. After the payment's completed, she returns his card and he stares momentarily at his name printed on the front before putting it back in his wallet. Murdoc snatches the two proffered key cards with a grunt of thanks. 

They take the lift in silence. “Elevator going up” the robotic voice says. They watch the floors tick up. 

Their room is small but immaculate, perfectly coordinated in teal and cream, with a mile wide bed facing a similarly oversized television on the opposite wall. The windows face the high street instead of the endless sky. The configuration and colours remind 2D of hotel rooms on tour. Since the room only possesses a desk chair, they toe off their shoes and sit on the bed. 2D glances over at Murdoc, a yard away on the king-size. 

“Maureen saw your real name on your credit card.”

“Yeah. We'd make terrible spies.”

“She also emptied our bin of used condoms for six weeks.”

Murdoc grimaces. 

“What are you suggesting, she's selling them to deranged fans?”

2D shoots Murdoc a bug eyed look. 

“No, that hadn't crossed my mind, actually, cheers for that fucking thought.”

“It's fine,” Murdoc shrugs wearily. “The worst she does is tell the papers. They know. Everyone knows. It's like Liberace coming out, it's a formality at this point Stu.”

2D gives a tired nod. Murdoc picks up the television remote and starts scanning through the multitudinous channels. They settle for watching an old Steve Martin routine but are too lost in thought to laugh. 

The next morning Murdoc opens 2D's suitcase, takes out his Cheap Trick t-shirt and pulls it on wordlessly. He disappears into the bathroom while 2D pulls on one of his own polo shirts. When Murdoc materialises, freshly shaved, his hair is back to its usual severe flop fringe. He holds out his hand to 2D, medallion on his palm. 2D takes the necklace and tries to fasten it back around Murdoc's neck from the front, fiddling blindly with the clasp. After a few failed attempts, Murdoc gently takes it from him and fastens it himself. 

“Sorry, my grip, it's not-”

“I know,” Murdoc interrupts softly. 2D straightens the medallion then kisses Murdoc, hands on his shoulders. Murdoc cups his neck, fingers stroking at the stubble on his nape and making him shiver.

“It was nice while it lasted, wasn't it?” 2D whispers, eyes closed. 

“Yeah.”

When they step outside it quickly becomes apparent that a cold snap has settled overnight. They walk along the front, into the icy breeze, but stop when they reach the lightless husk of The Beach. Reaching a silent agreement, they turn around and walk back to the high street and hunker down in a bar for the rest of the day. They do their best to prop one another up as they stumble back to the hotel some time after the sun has set. 

2D wakes up after noon and finds a text from Murdoc that simply reads “Down the pub”. 2D doesn't bother asking which and orders room service of pepperoni pizza and a chocolate brownie instead, watching 2 Broke Girls on mute as he tries to eat his hangover away. The day provides a mold for those that follow it, with 2D waking later and later each day and Murdoc returning from his unidentified pub later still. 

On Christmas Eve, 2D gets woken up by the chirp of a text message and sees Murdoc pulling on his leather jacket by the door. 2D grunts a greeting, glancing at his phone and reading the junk text before spotting the date. 

“Are we doing Christmas presents?” he asks, sitting up. Murdoc looks at him blankly. 

“We're grown men.”

“Martin and Stewart would-”

“Don't let's go down that road again,” Murdoc says brittly. When 2D keeps watching him, Murdoc offers an unenthusiastic shrug. “Fine, but let's not get stupid about it. Five pound limit, no cards.”

2D pulls a face. “Five quid? You can't get anything for five quid nowadays.”

“Get creative. If all else fails, get a four pack of sausage rolls from Gregglands, can't go wrong with those.”

2D throws on clothes and they head down the high street. They wind up going in CeX together and shield their choices from one another when they head to the till. Once they've paid, Murdoc heads for a coffee shop and 2D walks to the nearest card shop for wrapping paper, scissors and sellotape. When 2D wakes up on Christmas Day, Murdoc's sat up in bed, looking at his phone. 

“Merry Christmas,” 2D yawns.

“Ditto,” Murdoc mutters, reaching in his bedside table drawer and pulling out a suspiciously CD shaped present wrapped in gawdy, santa covered paper. 2D leans down to pull his own, less well wrapped but equally santa covered and CD shaped, present out from under the bed. 

“You bought the same wrapping paper?” 2D asks. 

“Course not - nicked some of yours while you were having a shit.”

Murdoc nods for 2D to open his present first. 2D obliges, carefully peeling back the sellotape in a way that makes Murdoc's eye twitch.

“My mum liked to save the paper,” he explains as he unwinds it to reveal Jason Donovan's Greatest Hits. He can't help the genuine peal of laughter that escapes him. 

“Since Christmas is a time of peace and goodwill towards all men,” Murdoc explains, “I'm willing to listen to Jason today and today only.”

“You say that now,” 2D warns with a grin. “Thanks.”

Murdoc unwraps his present with far less care and gives Peace Sells… But Who's Buying? a smirk. 

“Never got the chance to listen to any Megadeth,” 2D explains. 

“So you bought yourself a present?”

“I thought you could serenade me with it,” 2D says. Murdoc clearly puts two and two together and grimaces. 

“Did I seriously say that? I really was a pathetic sod wasn't I?”

2D pulls Murdoc into a kiss rather than answer. 

“How much was it selling for, out of interest?” Murdoc asks between kisses. 

“Four quid.”

“Bargain. Yours was fifty pence.”

“I'm not surprised. Jason's one of those artists who's only truly gonna be appreciated after he's died.”

Murdoc grins before kissing him harder. 2D threads his fingers through Murdoc's unfairly thick hair. When they pull apart, Murdoc glances down at the CDs on the duvet. 

“We don't have a CD player, of course.”

“We could just download them on Spotify.”

Murdoc sets both downloading on his phone and they return to kissing, only breaking apart to awkwardly work their pants off under the duvet. They're starting to get hard, pulling one another closer, hips snapping forward, when Murdoc presses his lips to 2D's ear.

“I wanna be your sledgehammer,” Murdoc whispers in what is clearly the most sensuous voice he can muster. 2D snorts with laughter. 

“You've been saving that up, haven't you?”

“I have,” Murdoc agrees with a delighted grin. 2D pushes him back against the pillows, dragging a sound of approval out of Murdoc.

“I'd have thought you were more into the idea of me being your sledgehammer,” 2D says, voice low with lust as he positions himself between Murdoc's legs, arms bracketing him. Murdoc seems to mull 2D's words over as his hands grip 2D's backside possessively. 

“Let there be no doubt about it,” he agrees gruffly. 

“You sure you don't like Peter Gabriel?” 2D grins before leaning down to kiss him, slow and hungry, hips starting to roll, grinding down against Murdoc. Murdoc interrupts their kissing with another laugh and 2D pulls back, though his hips threaten to keep moving.

“Are you planning to be a twat the whole time?”

“No, just have an idea, hold on.” Murdoc leans over to grab his phone from the bedside table and lets out a ragged groan as 2D takes the opportunity to pump Murdoc's cock. Murdoc shoots him a lust filled look of admonishment. 

“You're not helping,” Murdoc gasps out as he attempts to keep using his phone. 

“Good. Get a move on.”

“Yes sir,” Murdoc smirks and 2D rolls his eyes. “I'm finding mood music from your Christmas present.” Sure enough, Especially For You starts playing and 2D has to duck his head against Murdoc's shoulder to laugh for a moment before gathering his wits about him. He lines himself up with Murdoc's cock and starts to grind down in time with the beat. Murdoc groans, noise edged with frustration. 

“Faster, christ!”

“Should have picked a faster song then,” 2D chokes out before proceeding to hum along, the sound punctuated by his and Murdoc's gasps and moans. 

“Don't you dare sing while we fuck, Kylie.” 

2D can only assume that Murdoc has their Christmas presents on shuffle since the next song is Megadeth and, blessedly, practically double the tempo. He comes during the guitar solo, Murdoc following shortly afterwards with a moan. After Murdoc cleans them off with his pants, they settle on their sides and 2D pulls Murdoc into a kiss, neither of them breathing quite right in the aftermath. Each time they make to pull away, their eyes meet and they fall back into kissing, soft and slow, while Jason laments how many broken hearts there are in the world. A particularly abrasive Megadeth song follows, breaking the spell. 2D reaches out for Murdoc's phone and pauses it to a noise of protest from Murdoc.

“Excuse you, that's a fine bit of guitar.”

“I think I've hit my Megadeth quota.”

“Daily, yearly or lifetime?”

“Yes.”

Murdoc laughs. “I'll make a metal head of you yet, Pot,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to 2D's shoulder. 2D's phone chirrups and he reaches blindly behind him to grab it from his bedside table and sees a new text notification from his mum. Murdoc apparently spots the name and makes to get out of bed. 2D holds Murdoc's arm to keep him in place.

“Where're you going?”

“If you want to call her, I can go for a walk. Text me when you're done.”

“It's freezing out.”

“You missed an opportunity there,” Murdoc chastises. 

2D huffs a sigh before warbling “baby, it's cold outside.”

“Best version?” Murdoc prompts. 2D starts scrolling through Spotify. 

“Uh, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan.” He plays a verse and Murdoc nods approvingly. 

“I'll allow it but the right answer is Ray Charles and Betty Carter,” Murdoc plays a sample on his own phone. 2D continues scrolling as he nods along to the music, letting out an “oh!” of delight when he spots another version. 

“Wait, no, Jimmy Buffett's done a cover, that wins.” 2D presses play and they make it to Jimmy worrying that his puppy will be pacing the floor before Murdoc pauses the track. He holds out his hand expectantly. 

“What?” 2D frowns. 

“I'm revoking your licence to listen to music, you've got negative levels of taste, it's just dangerous.”

2D chuckles and bats the hand away. 

“Buffett's doing his best.”

“That's what worries me.”

2D's smile fades as he opens the text and starts reading. Murdoc gives it a quick glance before studying the duvet. 

“Looks like she's sent you the Complete Works of Shakespeare.”

The text consists of complete paragraphs. 2D nods his agreement. 

“Sure you don't want to ring her?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

Murdoc goes quiet while 2D scans the message. There's a brief update on various cousins, aunts and uncles and a description of the DIY projects his dad has been working on. The final paragraph starts with the fateful words “I called in The Oak last week and caught up with Mike”. 2D has to force himself to read the final few sentences rather than just press delete. 2D feels how Murdoc studies his face, trying to gauge his reaction, and how badly he’s masking his own alarm. He turns his phone's screen off and sets it on the duvet. 

“Well?” Murdoc asks. 

“My mum said to say Happy Christmas,” 2D says dispiritedly. 

“Right.” Murdoc doesn't push 2D for more but keeps watching him expectantly.

“Mike told her we're together,” 2D forces out. 

Murdoc nods, seemingly unsurprised. “What'd your dad make of it?”

“She hasn't told him yet. Said she's going to.”

“Sure he'll take it well,” Murdoc says without enthusiasm. They settle side by side against the headboard, arms flush. Feeling restless, 2D grabs his phone back off the bed and opens the banking app. He sets up a payment to his mum and writes “Happy Christmas. Sorry I didn't send a card. Love Stuart” in the description field. Murdoc clearly catches sight of the sum. 

“I didn't send a present, she can get herself a nice handbag or something,” 2D explains, voice catching. 

“Handbag or handbag store?”

2D presses the Make Payment button with a shrug, resting more heavily against Murdoc afterwards, hand on Murdoc's thigh. He tries to put his mum's polite pleas to come home out of his mind. To avoid the temptation of rereading the text, 2D takes Murdoc's phone from his hand and scrolls through the phone book.

“I give up, don't you have Jimmy's number in here?” he frowns. 

“He's down as Tommy.”

“Do you seriously not know his name?”

“No, I have it tattooed on my scrotum but I like to play hard to get.” Murdoc deadpans. “It keeps him on his toes. You're going to call him on Christmas Day? At, what, stupid o'clock in LA?”

“We're rock stars, aren't we? He'd be disappointed if we didn't.”

“You're right,” Murdoc says with a pointed smile. 2D forces a laugh. 

“John'd be proud.”

“Feels wrong.” Murdoc pretends to shudder. 

“Yeah, s’unnerving.”

2D dials and turns on speakerphone. Jimmy answers in one ring. 

“Give me the zip code of the police station and I'll get someone out ASAP,” Jimmy says unprompted, voice thick with sleep. 

“Could be a bit offended by that Billy,” Murdoc grumbles. “Perhaps I just wanted to wish you the season's greetings.”

“Yeah, Happy Christmas Jimmy,” 2D chimes in. 

“Merry Christmas. Is that D?”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees. “We just had our Christmas Day shag and thought we'd call you with our excellent idea.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says, slowly and dubiously. 

“How would you like to join us for a ménage à troi-” Murdoc starts and 2D elbows him in the side. “We were thinking of having a music festival.”

“What?”

“A music festival. Gorillaz headlining, collaborators performing sets too. In Margate. We've done a recce - it'll work, trust us,” 2D offers. 

“What D said,” Murdoc agrees. 

“So you've been working on an album?”

2D's convinced Murdoc predicts Jimmy's response, judging by how unsurprised he looks.

“Why? It's barely been five minutes since the last one Jim,” Murdoc says innocently.

“Guys, you know the label are going to ask where the next release is. They're never going to sign off on a tour without new material,” Jimmy pauses. “Well, they might sign off on touring Demon Days again,” he concedes. 

“We're working on some stuff,” 2D says. 

“And it sounds nothing like Clint Eastwood,” Murdoc says with apparent glee. 

“Alright. Let's get some time in the diary and talk properly. Where can I find you guys?”

They share a look. 2D gives a nod as he squeezes Murdoc's thigh. 

“Detroit,” Murdoc says. 

*

220 Hendrie Street scarcely looks different to Murdoc. The boards have been pulled down from the windows but their nails remain in the frames and the scrap of front garden looks untouched. Murdoc spots the wooden sign reading Spirit House over the door as they enter but decides to save his questions for when they're not fresh off an eight hour flight. 

They dump their suitcases in 2D's bedroom and Murdoc walks over to the wall at the foot of the bed, covered in sprawling, barely legible spider diagrams. He makes a study of them, brow knitted as he tries to follow how the song lyrics drift into festival thoughts. Murdoc spots a marker pen on a dresser, grabs it and walks to the next clean wall. 2D picks up a second pen, free hand toying with Murdoc's cross as he watches him expectantly. 

Murdoc uncaps the marker and scrawls Untitled Gorillaz Album in the middle of the wall. They admire his handiwork momentarily. 

“Let's get this party started,” Murdoc says decisively. 

“Alright Pink,” 2D grins, uncapping his own pen as they set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the latest instalment! Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like.


	22. 2016 - 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the world as Gorillaz know it.
> 
> Featuring solar power, the lost art of letter writing and A Twist. Unbetaed.

_29_ _April 2017_

“Can I get a taro milk tea, half sweet, regular ice, with tapioca?”

He takes a seat while he waits and does a Buzzfeed quiz. They call his order just as he discovers that the emoji that best fits his personality is the octopus. After piercing the lid deftly with his straw, he slips his sunglasses back on and heads out into the sunshine.

He moseys up Atlantic Avenue as he drinks and thinks about what being the octopus emoji says about him as a person. When his cellphone starts blasting The Imperial March, he almost drops his drink in surprise. He yanks his cellphone out of his pocket and jabs the call accept button.

“Hel-”

“Now listen here buddy, and listen good,” he growls. “When I said “hey, if you record any of my songs, you better give me royalties”, that wasn't a joke.”

“I-”

“That wasn't a suggestion. We struck a deal. I'm Italian, pal, you disrespect me, I'll leave a horse's head in your bed, I'll-”

“Ace-”

“I'm gonna trace this call. I'm gonna find your ass and I'm gonna collect what's due. With interest-”

“Corleone, let me get a word in edgeways,” Murdoc cuts across. “I'm trying to make you an offer you can't refuse.”

Ace's eyes narrow as he slurps his bubble tea.

“I'm listening Limey.”

_5 February 2016_

Murdoc corrals the band into the dilapidated Spirit House living room as soon as Noodle and Russel have deposited their bags in their new bedrooms. He passes out champagne flutes, opens the magnum with a well practised twist of his hand and pours them each a generous glassful. He raises the bottle in a toast.

“Happy New Year's.”

“It's February,” Noodle mutters before drinking half her glass and holding it out for a top up. Murdoc obliges.

“Happy Chinese New Year.”

“That's next Monday,” Russel corrects, giving the champagne a sniff.

“My band, my calendar.” The words earn him an unimpressed look from 2D.

“Try that again.”

“Our band, our calendar,” Murdoc sneers playfully. “Just bloody toast me so I can drink. To Gorillaz! To hearing some decent fucking music on the radio!“

2D taps his glass against the bottle. “To more band meetings with champagne.”

“Amen,” Russel agrees as they toast. Murdoc takes a long pull on the magnum, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

“What's the next item on the docket? Tour of Spirit House? Stu, d’you second my proposal? Russ, Sprog: thirded and fourthed?”

“Just lead the way,” Russel says, finishing his glass. As they move from barely furnished room to barely furnished room, Murdoc feels the weight of unspoken questions hanging between them. Russel forces the issue when they enter the studio, the only decorated part of the house.

“So how are things with you?” Russel asks as he studies the monitors and amps.

“You as in me?” Murdoc asks. “Or you as in 2D?”

“You as in the two of you. D and I talk, I know what's going on with him.”

Murdoc considers the racks as he weighs his options. His silence prompts Russel and Noodle to look to 2D for their answer. Murdoc feels 2D's eyes on him and spots the thoughtful but soft look he's wearing. He tamps down on his threatened smile by swigging more champagne.

“We're getting on well,” 2D admits, making no effort to mask his surprise.

“Never better,” Murdoc adds. “All warmth and affection nowadays.”

He forces himself to watch for Russel's reaction and sees the same uneasy frown he'd worn on the private jet while demanding answers to a backing track of 2D's sobs, muffled by the locked bedroom door. 2D slips his arm about Murdoc's waist and Murdoc raises the magnum in another toast.

“Mark my words, this is the dawning of a new age for Gorillaz. To Gorillaz 2.0!” When they've raised their empty hands in a toast, he adds “also, D and I are back to shagging like rabbits.”

Noodle takes the magnum from him wordlessly and takes a weary swig.

_12 April 2016_

““You're not gonna cry”? Pull the other one Dorothy.”

Murdoc dodges 2D's notebook as 2D launches it at his head. 2D starts trying to dismantle the microphone stand to make more projectiles but Russel grabs him by the shoulder.

“That's hate speech!” 2D insists, still scrabbling at the stand.

“Oh fuck off, pretty boy,” Murdoc snarls, taking a step towards 2D only to be intercepted by Noodle. “We all know I'm as bent as a nine bob note.”

2D falters in trying to dislodge Russel's vice like grip to boggle at Murdoc.

“Are you seriously fucking coming out?”

“Solely to piss you off,” Murdoc sneers. “Is it working Dozza?”

“It's a good song!” 2D snaps. “Which is more than you can say for fucking Gangbang Massacre Party. Even for you, that makes no fucking sense!”

“Oi, it's not called that and you know it!” Murdoc growls, trying to dodge Noodle. She grabs his wrist and exerts pressure in a way Murdoc instinctively knows could hurt much worse if Noodle so chose.

“Act civilly,” Noodle instructs.

“How about I nut him instead?” 2D mutters, “that sounds better.”

“I didn't offer options,” Noodle says with a threatening smile. Murdoc and 2D share a quietly alarmed look before extending their hands to grudgingly shake. Russel and Noodle release them.

“Let's go back to the drawing board,” Russel says and the band head to the corkboard lovingly labelled “The Drawing Board” by Murdoc. Murdoc's eyes rove over the numerous post-it notes pinned to it before glancing at the neighbouring whiteboard sporting the words “Tracklist” and “1. Ascension”. He grimaces.

“All this progress, it's making my head spin.”

“There's worse problems than too many tracks,” Russel points out. 2D grabs the whiteboard marker and starts writing “2. Fireflies”. Murdoc picks up the eraser and attempts to rub it off, batting at 2D's hand when he tries to rewrite the ruined letters.

“We're not having a song about crying. We're not having a song about fucking fruit flies.”

2D abandons writing in favour of scowling.

“They're fireflies.”

“Well that changes everything,” Murdoc deadpans as he rubs off the last of 2D's writing.

“We've got a song about fucking jellyfish.”

“We do. Good tune.”

“What about all that spoken word bollocks you want to put on there?”

Murdoc takes the opportunity to write “1a. I Switched My Robot Off” above Ascension with another pen.

“It's provocative.”

“No it's not.”

“Gets the people going.”

Russel takes the eraser and pens from their hands with a warning look.

“If you're quoting the movie, we're good. If you're quoting the song, we're gonna have a problem.”

The pair concede a nod.

“Look, Russ, the sooner my fucking accountant agrees Fireflies is a B side, the sooner we can finish this bloody tracklist.”

2D's brow contracts. “If you start calling me your accountant again I really will headbutt you.”

“Then what am I, your lord and master?”  

“In your dreams, sunshine.”

“Alright geezer, calm it down.”

“You're my boyfriend,” 2D spits out. Murdoc feels his chest tighten. He tears his gaze from The Drawing Board to give 2D a guarded look.

“Fuck off.”

“What else are you, my gimp?”

“If you ask nicely,” Murdoc says, kneejerk. “We're not boyfriends, we're not twelve.”

“Christ, fine, then you're my partner.”

“I thought you said we weren't accountants.”

“Lover?”

“S’not Mills and Boon.”

“Common law husb-”

“Fuck off, fine, you're my cunt of a boyfriend and you can shove your gnat song up your jacksie!” Murdoc gripes but he's smiling despite himself.

“If you pair of boyfriends are done,” Russel says, the words sounding suitably damning, “this started out as a conversation about the tracklist, not whether you're going steady.”

“The problem,” Noodle says before Murdoc or 2D can chime in, “is we lack a coherent theme.”

They study The Drawing Board again.

“How about mental disintegration told through an elaborate environmental decline analogy?” Murdoc offers drily. “Oh hang on, already did that.”

“Did the debut have a theme?” 2D asks.

“Yes, fobbing the label off with my old demos before they asked for their advance back.”

They lapse into silence.

“How about self reflection?” 2D suggests as Murdoc says “party at the end of the world.”

They turn to pull faces at one another. Murdoc senses how Noodle and Russel tense, ready to restrain them again.

“Michael Stipe beat you to your theme,” 2D points out snidely.

“No one wants an album about grown men crying.”

“They liked Plastic Beach didn't they?”

Murdoc grits his teeth and turns to look at Noodle and Russel.

“What's a better theme: party at the end of the world or Stuart Pot's solo album? Show of hands.” 2D proceeds to show Murdoc his middle fingers.

“You could try compromising,” Russel says with an unimpressed look.

The horror on 2D's face mirrors Murdoc's thoughts before melting into something more pensive.

“How about a two parter?”

“What're you on about?” Murdoc asks.

“Two albums. Part one, Michael Stipe's apocalypse party, part two, doing the dishes and taking out the recycling after the world keeps spinning.”

Murdoc doesn't bother hiding his approving smile. 2D's answering grin is megawatt.

“It's alright,” Murdoc concedes mock grudgingly.

Noodle begins tearing post its off The Drawing Board. Russel grabs the whiteboard marker and divides the board into two columns. He starts writing Noodle's suggestions into the “Apocalypse Party” column.

“To quote my dear old brother,” Murdoc says, surveying their handiwork with folded arms and a toothy grin, ““I love it when a plan comes together”. Mark my words, albums five and six’ll be out by the end of the year. Piece of piss.”

_7 June 2017_

Smiling, 2D agrees to giving Maureen and John the last Demon Dayz VIP passes. Murdoc uses it as an excuse to go into Margate town centre on the pretense of getting an envelope to put them in. Clearly feeling hemmed in by Dreamland's fence, Noodle accompanies him to the high street.

They stop every few minutes to take selfies with fans who have decided to descend on Margate early and make a week of it. Murdoc gets wished a belated happy birthday more times between Dreamland and the stationery shop than he can remember doing during all his years in Stoke.

They separate inside the stationery shop, Murdoc doing his best to block out all the gingham and bunting strewn around the twee interior. He finds a single shelf of writing paper packs and thumbs through the limited options before narrowing it down to flamingos and palm trees or floral.

He plumps for flamingos and heads to the till, asking for a set of First Class stamps and a pen from a pot on the counter. Noodle appears at his side, studying his purchases with interest as they're scanned and placed in a paper bag. They wander back down the high street, past CeX and Martin and Stewart's Caffe Costa of choice. Noodle's eyes bore into him and Murdoc eventually turns to give her a questioning look.

“You said the passes were for a couple in Margate.”

“Correct.”

“Then why do you need stamps?”

Murdoc considers inventing some bollocks about supporting the postal service. He opts to go on the offensive.

“Remind me what you've been up to for the last five years? Slaying demons? Killing mobsters? Telling porkies?”

“I could tell you-”

“But then you'd have to kill me, yes, I've heard that un before.” Murdoc feels a dark mood settle over him. “I don't get how you and Russ reckon you can prod and poke me when I don't know the first thing you've done for half a decade.” He's aiming for annoyed but sounds regretful to his own ear. Noodle shoots their fellow pedestrians a look before answering, softly but tersely.

“It's not the same.”

“How’s it not?”

“The things you've done affect others.”

“Ditto.”

“Perhaps, but the things you've done affect us.”

Murdoc doesn't need to ask who Noodle means by “us”. She had left it to Russel to berate him on the private jet. She had watched, openly stunned by Murdoc's potted explanations of what had happened on the beach that had left 2D horrified by thoughts of the sea. Murdoc feels grimly satisfied at the realisation that Noodle's expression is the same as the one she wore on the jet, disappointed and disgusted by his silence.

“You're right,” he agrees.

“Why do you need stamps?” she presses quietly.

They walk inside Dreamland, dodging roadies and technicians to linger in a sheltered spot beside the Speedway.

“Because I express myself better when I write, though there's legions of critics and listeners who'd disagree, I'm sure.” When Noodle makes to speak, Murdoc plows on. “People don't write letters anymore. Perhaps I'll start a trend. We could release an ultra deluxe edition of Humanz with a handwritten letter from yours truly. I'll suggest it to the label, you know how they love it when we have off the wall ideas.”

Murdoc's ready to keep blathering but Noodle shoots him such an intensely earnest look that he stutters to a halt.

“You've gone to such lengths.” Her gaze takes in the totality of Dreamland. “Don't ruin it.”

Murdoc wants to say that that's the opposite of what he's planning. That he's trying to fix things and for once, he might succeed. He's tempted to pull out a sheet of writing paper and scribble his words on it. He gives her a weary nod instead.

“I'll try.” The words sound well rehearsed. “I'm fifty. Fifty one. It's time I tried doing things differently.”

_28 March 2017_

“Open it!”

“No amount of pretending it's Christmas is going to make me enthusiastic about seeing a redux of the Demon Days cover art, Stu.”

2D makes to take Murdoc's phone so he switches it to the hand furthest from him. The man smirks knowingly, apparently making a concentrated effort to drape as much of his naked body over Murdoc’s as possible while he snatches at it. He winds up between Murdoc's legs and Murdoc's spent cock gives an appreciative twitch. He cups 2D's head with his free hand and pulls him into an open mouthed kiss.

“You're not helping,” 2D mutters, clearly smiling.

“When've I ever done that?”

“The deal was you'd look at the bloody artwork if I fucked you. I kept my side of the bargain.”

“And very nice it was too.”

““Nice”?” 2D's nose wrinkles.

“Fine, world class. Legendary. Hand me my thesaurus.”

2D gives him a sarcastic peck.

“You're welcome. Gimme your phone before I pull a muscle.”

Murdoc relinquishes it. 2D lays flush against his arm as he opens the attachment, holding the phone landscape by their nipples. Murdoc winces.

“Christ, it's worse than I was imagining.”

“It's fine, it's part of the compromise for Margate.”

Murdoc smiles wryly as he remembers Jimmy's moody retelling of meetings he'd had with LA executives, explaining why, where and what Margate was. 

“You better be grateful,” Murdoc says. “All this trouble for a bloody birthday present.”

“Who said anything about Margate being my birthday present?”

“Me, now. The perfect present for the ingrate who has everything.”

“You definitely went over the five quid limit.”

“Slightly.”

2D looks back at the artwork, smile warping with amusement.

“It's not that similar to Demon Days. I'm wearing a hat on this one.”

“You're wearing a hat on Demon Days.”

2D pulls a pained face as he tries to remember.

“Oh yeah. Well, I'm wearing a different hat.”

“D'you think they could have photoshopped us more?” Murdoc asks, engrossed in the supposed photo of himself. “I'm not sure they've seen a human. What's with my philtrum?”

“Your what?”

Murdoc runs a finger lightly over 2D's upper lip. 2D smiles at the touch, kisses the pad of Murdoc's finger.

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.”

“How d'you know the word for that?”

“Not just a pretty face.”

“Not even.” 2D holds the phone next to Murdoc's face for comparison. “See?”

Murdoc can't suppress his smirk. He takes his phone from 2D and opens the band's Now Then You Lot WhatsApp group chat.

“What're you doing?” 2D asks, watching him type.

“Gathering views about the artwork.”

“They're down the hall, go talk to them.”

Murdoc attaches the artwork to his message. 2D waves a hand in front of his face.

“Hello?”

“What? I should go down there, tackle out, and conduct some market research?”

“Do you talk to them when I'm not there?” 2D asks softly. Murdoc looks sidelong at him.

“How'd we get from ripping the piss out of the artwork to checking if I'm playing nicely with Noodle and Russ?”

“You could just say “No, Stu, I'm not speaking to them when you're not around”,” 2D says tiredly. “Not everything is an excuse to be a smartarse.”

“I beg to differ,” Murdoc mutters, waiting for Clever Clogs to finish typing his reply. “And hark at you, when d'you last call your parents?”

Murdoc practically feels the temperature drop as 2D shifts away fractionally on the pretense of picking up his own phone to study blankly. Murdoc feels his heart thud in the ensuing silence and contemplates getting dressed and going to his own unused bedroom. He settles for looking at his hand, clenching the bed covers.

“It's all symptomatic of the same thing, isn't it?” Murdoc asks.

“That being?”

“Me. What I did.” 2D gives his side a gentle elbow when he says nothing more. “What?”

“Talk to me. You're in your head.”

“Lovely place, I should do tours,” Murdoc says, more weary than joking.

“Can't change what happened,” 2D says without enthusiasm. “Can only do things differently now.”

“Right,” Murdoc agrees blandly. Russel succinctly approves the artwork in the group chat.

“It'll be out this time next month,” 2D points out. “Fancy a bet?”

“About?”

“The album, the reviews.”

Murdoc sets his phone down. “What's the wager?”

“Critics'll hate it.”

“Can't take that bet.”

“How come?”

“Because I agree.”

2D smiles wryly. “It's still disturbing when you do that.”

“I'll work harder on being a contrary bastard.” 2D's hand finds its way to his leg. Murdoc puts his own hand on top, comically small by comparison. He feels 2D's scars with his palm, sees his own catch the light. “We should go down a bookies and put some money on critics panning it and fans loving it: we'll make a pretty penny.”

_28 April 2017_

The roving camera crew filming footage for the Strobelite video means there's a depressing lack of drugs at the launch party. Murdoc settles for steadily working his way through mezcals in a bid to ignore the Twitter reviews pouring in. He's far enough gone that he's increasingly convinced some bloke further down the bar is his old geography teacher Mr Franks. Murdoc's sidled over to him and begun commending him on how good he's looking for a ninety year old when the man gives him his business card and starts boring the bollocks off him about his secondhand private jet business. Murdoc takes the card, slurring something about keeping Steve in mind should he ever need an affordable private jet solution, before grabbing an unattended bottle of vodka. He weaves around the dance floor and spots a fire exit to slip out. He's almost made it outside when 2D steps into his path, beer in one hand, phone in the other, flushed from dancing.

“Melody Express like it,” 2D says, nodding at his phone.

“You sound surprised,” Murdoc mutters, unable to resist checking Twitter again. “If we spunked in a cup and called it an album, they'd still give it five stars.”

2D doesn't challenge him as he keeps scrolling.

“The press really like it.”

“I guess they got sick of getting it wrong and thought they'd agree with the masses for a change.”

They share a look, daring one another to voice their shared thought.

“Except the masses reckon it's crap.” 2D forces the words out, sounding a mixture of embarrassed and angry.

“That's a bit strong: they're mixed.”

“They think I should be on more songs.”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

“Good thing we've got part two to fix it.”

“If we finish writing part two. If we survive part one.”

2D positions himself with his back to the room, hemming Murdoc in by the fire exit and studying him intently as he frowns. Murdoc gives him a daring look.

“What d'you mean “if we survive part one”?”

“Oddly, I mean what I said.”

“There's a lot more of your songs on part one.”

“Yes, and people thought they were shit, apparently,” Murdoc says, shoving down the wave of horror the thought inspires and swigging the vodka.

“The title isn't even Humanz Part 1.”

“Because that would be a shit title. Stu, it won't be our decision: if it doesn't sell, the label'll pull the plug.”

2D shoves his phone in his pocket and gives Murdoc a look that falls between disappointed and irritated.

“Why do we even pretend you're not still in charge?”

“Come off it, I planned for fans to hate Humanz? You came up with Party Apocalypse followed by Doing the Dishes, it isn't my fault your songwriting runs more along the dish washing lines, Cocker.”

“Cocker?”

““I am not Jesus, though I have the same initials, I am the man who stays home and does the dishes”,” Murdoc rattles off effortlessly. 2D continues to stare. “Dishes, Pulp. You really ought to listen to the good music that's come out of Sheffield, it'll blow your mind after AB bloody C.”

2D looks momentarily annoyed.

“We're going on tour. A world tour. We're going to Margate in an month.”

“Yes, and? Have you got a point?” Murdoc asks irritably, feet itching to take a step towards the fire exit.

“If we're like this now, how the hell do we get through a tour?”

The cameraman passes by and 2D’s expression transforms into a photogenic smile. Murdoc makes no effort to reconfigure his scowl. They mumble half formed words at one another, subtly tracking the camera's progress, before snapping back to their argument.

“Don't worry about it,” Murdoc concludes curtly.

“Is that supposed to reassure me or concern me more?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Murdoc says with an instinctively cruel smile. He wills it away with a concentrated effort and tries again. “It's in hand. I'm going to try doing things differently. Like you said in Southend.”

2D makes a thorough study of him, openly suspicious.

“What are you planning?”

Murdoc doubts it'll make him look saner to admit that while he's hazy on the details, he's convinced he's on the verge of something fully fledged and irrevocable.

“Something,” he offers. “Something was going to happen tonight.”

“And what's that mean, exactly?”

“I told you, it's provocative.”

“If you fuck this up, I won't forgive you,” 2D murmurs before draining his beer.

“This as in the band or this as in us?”

“Both.”

Murdoc lets the mezcals dig him deeper. “You haven't forgiven me for-”

They share a look rather than say it.

“I have.” The words aren't entirely convincing. “You haven't forgiven yourself though.”

“Yeah, maybe I never will,” Murdoc quotes. “I actually remember writing that one.”

“Of course you do,” 2D sighs. He tries to finish his glass again and looks annoyed at the wasted effort. He gives Murdoc an overwhelmed, almost teary look. “I need to not have this conversation tonight. Sort yourself out, sober up.”

Murdoc watches him blend back into the mass of bodies, sees him find Noodle and go back to dancing, limbs not as loose as before. When 2D's lost from sight, Murdoc pushes open the fire exit and leans against the club's wall as he lights up and takes as long a drag as his knackered lungs will permit. He's halfway down his cigarette when Russel slips through the door, cigar in hand. Murdoc can't help his laughter.

“What?” Russel asks. “Can't enjoy a little Cuban luxury now and then?”

“Enjoy away mate, I'm just never getting over what a classy bastard you are.”

Russel takes a silver lighter out of an inner pocket of his jacket and lights the cigar. He takes a puff, clearly savouring the taste, before studying Murdoc. Murdoc forces an obnoxiously vapid smile on his face. It falters when Russel keeps watching him solemnly.

“What's up?” Russel asks quietly. Murdoc casts a look around the deserted alley before letting his expression fall further.

“The critics love the album, some of the fans do too, the tour's selling out,” he reels off. “Margate sold out quickly.”

“That's a hell of an understatement,” Russel mutters around his cigar. “So what's the problem?”

Murdoc addresses the concrete but his tone, brittle and wavering, still gives him away.

“Why can't I enjoy it? I'm fifty one with the heart of a ninety year old: every day I wake up alive is a fucking achievement but I can't just enjoy it. It's like I'm forcing a bowel movement.”

Russel grimaces at the analogy. “Sounding like Hamlet. Lost all your mirth.”

“Walking through the flowers, waving to the people,” Murdoc agrees. Russel clearly tries to place the lyric.

“You got me.”

“Birthday Party, Hamlet (Pow Pow Pow),” Murdoc explains. “What's that make the score?”

“Like twenty to one to me. You might wanna try listening to more music Murdoc, I'm whupping your ass.”

Murdoc doesn't dispute it, just tries to smile at their patter. Russel clearly notices the extra effort he's taking and frowns harder.

“I walked past D on my way out here. Looked kinda pissed.”

“American or British pissed?”

“American.”

“We had a lovers’ quarrel.”

“About?”

Murdoc looks at the glowing end of Russel's cigar.

“About how I kidnapped him.”

Russel's body language shifts, shoulders stiffening, cigar holding hand tightening its grip.

“You had that fight now? Been a long time coming.”

“Apparently. You know me, in touch with my emotions.”

“So what's your conscience telling you to do?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Murdoc asks to buy time. 

“Might explain why you can't enjoy your critically acclaimed album and your sold out festival.”

“I thought I'd had my conscience surgically removed. The procedure must not have took.”

Russel gives him a mostly patient look, like he's waiting for him to get the jokes out of his system. The ensuing, expectant silence makes Murdoc feel impossibly old and alone. 

“I think I need to take action. That was Hamlet's problem, wasn't it? Too much talking, not enough doing.”

“What kind of action?”

Murdoc's thoughts drift to 2011, to the last time someone said what he did. To the last time 2D said it. Murdoc remembers the taste of the chilli beef. He appreciates, suddenly and overwhelmingly, that not only did he shed his skin in Chinatown, but he somehow left his body there while the husk carried on regardless.

“I need to tell the truth, Russ.”

_11 June 2017_

His Roland Jupiter-8 develops a crackle. It takes him a while to realise, since it's only intermittent, which probably means it's an overheating issue. He tests his theory by playing some half remembered Pink Floyd and Yes, getting the keyboard nice and hot. Sure enough, the notes start crackling. He flips the keyboard, unscrews the back and wafts a temperature gun over the circuit board to try and find the culprit.

He's narrowed the problem down to either the power regulator or the age of a neighbouring capacitor when the garage door opens and light pours in from the hall.

“There's a letter from HMRC,” Rachel says, thumbing through the rest of the pile in her hands. David grimaces and nods at the workbench.

“Pop in on there.”

“Make sure you open it this time.”

“I only forgot the once.” David waits for the usual doom mongering about the taxman beating down their door but it doesn't come. He looks up from the circuit board to see Rachel staring at an envelope decorated with flamingos and palm trees, the rest of the post sat forgotten on the workbench.

“Who's that from?”

“I don't know.” She holds it out for David to consider. He squints at the vaguely familiar handwriting. “There's one for you too.” Rachel holds out another identical envelope addressed to “Mr David Pot”. David takes it with a frown.

“Don't recognise the writing. If you're not expecting anything it's probably some fan of Stu's.”

“It is franked Margate,” Rachel agrees.

“Just put them in the recycling.”

He might as well be talking to himself since Rachel's already thumbing open her envelope. She unfolds the letter, a single sheet of paper with one side of writing. Her gaze flicks to the bottom of the page and her eyes widen, hands gripping the letter tighter as she starts to scan its content.

“Who's it from?” David asks.

Rachel's eyes well with tears as she keeps reading with a murmur of “open yours”.

_6 June 2017_

Murdoc uses settling into their Dreamland trailers as an excuse to ignore his birthday. Noodle and Russel wish him a brief happy birthday but leave it at that, while 2D limits himself to a card and a grope. 2D slips away to explore Margate with Noodle and Russel after Murdoc makes it clear that he intends to spend the morning drinking and dozing. 2D reappears in the afternoon, standing in the bedroom doorway and giving Murdoc an expectant look. Murdoc groggily rubs sleep from his eyes and pulls himself up in the bed. 

“What is it Lassie? Timmy stuck down the well again?” he asks, fumbling for a half empty can of Strongbow to finish. 2D flicks him the V sign with a smile.

“Finish your cider, chav. Got something to show you.”

“Is it your cock? ‘Cause I've seen that.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're really funny?” 2D asks. “Because they were lying.”

“Har har, my sides, boyfriend of mine,” Murdoc smirks, pulling on jeans and boots with a yawn. He lets 2D lead him behind the roller-coaster, a spot Murdoc has yet to investigate. They stop in front of an airstream camper decked out in stickers and graffiti. Murdoc gives it, then 2D, a confused look.

“What's this when it's at home?”

2D pulls out a set of keys and opens the door. He leads the way inside, flicking the lightswitch to illuminate the studio equipment spanning the trailer.

“Solar powered studio. I was browsing online and saw some people were working on stuff to do with renewable energy in music. This is a prototype they made.”

“Which you bought?”

“For your birthday, yeah. You didn't think I just got you a card, did you?” 2D sits down on the settee. “Couldn't find a gift bag big enough, sorry.”

Murdoc turns slowly on the spot, admiring the selection and quality of the equipment filling the space from floor to ceiling.

“What d'you think?”

“I think you went over the five quid limit.”

“A little,” 2D concedes with a smile. 

“Why this?”

“Thought it might make up for us leaving the taps running for a hundred years.”

Murdoc mouths the words before saying “Pirate Jet” in near unison with 2D.

“I have zero memory of writing that one,” Murdoc admits softly. 2D's expression turns wistful.

“But this would be a thoughtful gift if you did,” he jokes sadly before making a noise of recollection. “Did you see the licence plate?” Murdoc shakes his head. “It's called Kong. Kong 2.”

The name blindsides Murdoc. There's no time to pretend to smooth his fringe and shield his face before tears spring to his eyes. Seconds later he's openly crying as he smiles lopsidedly. 2D pats the settee and Murdoc flops down beside him.

“I'm glad I didn't go with the four pack of sausage rolls,” 2D says as he puts his arm around Murdoc's shoulders. It doesn't take long for him to join Murdoc in crying.

“Happy birthday twat,” 2D murmurs and Murdoc cups his cheek and kisses him as earnestly as he knows how.

_10 June 2017_

They stand in the wing and wait for their cue. Murdoc leans out to sneak a look at the crowd, stretching out endlessly in the sunshine. Someone in the front row spots him and starts cheering. It spreads, grows cacophonous, and Murdoc's left thrumming with anticipation. He turns to look at 2D, leaning against one wall, gaze unfocused until Murdoc crowds him. A drunk looking smile grows on 2D's face, quickly replaced by a look of sudden alarm. Murdoc reads the signs correctly and ducks to one side in time for 2D to hunch over and vomit watery sick onto the floor. He straightens up, wipes his mouth on his wrist and gives Murdoc a winning smile. Murdoc returns it with a wrinkled nose.

“Drunk? Nervous? Both?”

“You know when you were a kid and you'd eat too many sweets and jump up and down on your bed-” 2D comes unstuck as he apparently registers who he's speaking to.

“I can imagine, you paint a picture,” Murdoc smirks. 2D grabs a bottle of water and hastily swills, spits then drinks half of it. Murdoc grabs him by the arms, darts a look at the sightlines to the stage, then kisses him hard. 2D's hands grip his hair harder as the crowd's chanting gets louder. Russel clears his throat.

“We're on the clock.”

Murdoc pulls himself away, pats his hair down and nods for 2D to lead the way.

If his customary pre-concert ciders hadn't already gotten him drunk, the screaming as they walk onstage does the trick. Murdoc lets himself grin widely, looking out at the rammed grounds as he slings on El Diablo. He takes in the panorama of girls on shoulders, flags and banners and countless phones held aloft.

As they work their way down their setlist, his gaze ticks, over and over, to 2D. He sees how he intently he plays, how poorly he disguises his own amusement at leading the security guards on a merry dance around the stage, threatening to climb down into the crowd more than once. Their eyes meet, time and again, and 2D's lips twitch upwards with a small, unassuming smile that burrows into Murdoc.

Realisation washes over him, cold and sobering, as they leave the stage after the encore, ears ringing. He thinks about the First Class stamps and how, with any luck, the letters will arrive tomorrow. He thinks about how they've committed him to a course of action just like the Cyborg's calls and messages did. He allows himself one last look at 2D, sopping up sweat with his balled up t-shirt, hair on end. 2D spots him and beams.

“I need a piss,” Murdoc says, and takes his leave.

_11 June 2017_

“Did you restock the hot drinks station Danny?”

“Yeah, we need to order more of those drink stirrers.”

“No we don't: ordered them last week. See, if you ordered now, you'd run out before they got here. Gotta stay one step ahead of the game.”

“I've got so much to learn.”

“Yeah, like how to not be a sarcy sod.”

Debbie walks over to the bar with the post, frowning down at a tropical looking envelope on the top of the pile.

“That a love letter from Head Office?”

Debbie shakes her head slowly and hands it over.

“It's literally addressed to Mike the Landlord,” she says and she's not lying. Mike studies the unfamiliar writing before tearing it open with a frown. He pulls the letter out wrong side up and spots the name.

“I need a few minutes. Debbie, can you get behind the bar?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” Mike says distractedly, grabbing his cigarettes and lighter.

He lights up in the beer garden and takes a steadying drag before unfolding the letter and starting to read.

_Mike_

_Flamingos aren't my thing but there's sod all choice of writing paper in the 21st century._

_You said I should work on being saner when we spoke a couple of years ago. You're right. I've never been well (mentally speaking). I'm trying though._

_I take it Stuart told you I kidnapped him and took him to that island (that or you figured it out yourself). That's true. The sane thing to do is not kidnap_ ~~_people_~~ _the man you love but there's not a lot I can do about that now. I've been thinking about the sane thing to do. I think it's to admit I did it and accept the consequences so that's what I'm doing._

_I’m sorry for what I've done._

_Murdoc_

_10 June 2017_

2D finishes his water while Murdoc has his piss. Five minutes pass. Ten minutes pass. 2D checks the toilets backstage and finds them all empty. Jimmy surreptitiously sends roadies around the portaloos and the toilets inside Dreamland. He shakes his head in preemptive answer when he steps inside Kong 2. 2D pauses in refreshing Twitter to give him a grimace of thanks.

“Have you heard from him?” Jimmy asks, tone unhopeful.

“No.”

Something about the way Jimmy's worn features furrow reminds 2D that this situation isn't new, it's just the roles that have reversed. He thinks of pointing it out but settles for reloading Twitter. There's nothing but ecstatic praise for Demon Dayz.

“He'll show up. He's probably taken something,” he says blandly, trying to believe his own words. “You know what he's like. Probably found Thanet's only bondage bar.”

“Noodle's been driving around looking. I've not heard anything from her so I'm guessing she hasn't had any luck.”

“Thanks Jimmy. It's late,” 2D says, words gently pointed, “you should head to the hotel. Think I might stay here tonight, the sofa's a pull out.”

The festival gets dismantled around 2D. He grabs Murdoc's car keys from his own trailer, gets Kong 2 hitched to the car and parks on the front. He texts Murdoc to say what he's done and is met with resounding silence. When the sun's risen, he drives back to Wobble Street and parks haphazardly across multiple off road parking spaces.

The doorbell rings around midday and 2D feels like he's wired to it, he jolts off his bed so quickly.

“Remember your keys, twat-” 2D says with an angry grin as he yanks open the door. His gaze, instinctively at Murdoc's eye level, is forced to tick upwards. A vaguely familiar man with impressively receding hair and a neon bomber jacket lowers his doorbell ringing hand.

“Hey D, how's it going? The short hair suits you man.”

2D fails to suppress a baffled look.

“Who're you?” The longer 2D looks at the man, the closer he comes to placing him. “We've met before, haven't we?”

“Yeah, Ace,” Ace smiles. “Ace Copular. I was lead singer and bassist in the Gang Green Band, we opened for you guys on the Demon Days tour.”

A few faint memories come to 2D.

“Right. How's it going?” he asks absently.

“Pretty good. I got tickets for Hamilton - have you seen it? I cried like three times.”

2D stares at middle distance as he thinks about polite ways to ask how Ace has his address.

“You looking for Murdoc?” Ace asks and 2D suddenly pays attention. He frowns hard at the man.

“Have you seen him?”

“Not recently, but we talked on the phone,” Ace gesture awkwardly past 2D. “Think we could talk in the living room?”

It's only when 2D lets Ace pass him that he spots the bass guitar bag on his back.

“What's going on?” 2D asks as his stomach drops.

_11 June 2017_

Murdoc looks up the directions on his phone and decides to just walk. The route takes him along the front, in the opposite direction to Martin and Stewart's daily trips to Ramsgate. He admires the vast summer sky, still not pitch black even after midnight.

The police station is everything he'd expected it to be: a nondescript brick block of a building. He walks to the front desk and the officer gives him a look of vague recognition.

“Good morning,” Murdoc offers wryly.

“How can I help?” the officer asks.

Murdoc purses his lips as he searches for words.

“I don't actually know how this works. I've usually got the cuffs on by the time I get to the station.”

The officer’s expression shifts, eyes glinting with concern.

“Are you here to report a crime?”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees. “Seven years ago, I kidnapped someone. I need to go to jail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this isn't resembling Phase 5 as we know it, give it time, it'll get closer.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the latest instalment! Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like.


	23. 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2D ain't seen nothing yet (and neither has Murdoc).
> 
> Featuring compliment sandwiches, off the books gambling and tactical blowjobs.
> 
> Warnings for angry (but very much consensual) sex, language and very unhealthy people doing very unhealthy things. Unbetaed.

It sounds like Mean Streets is deep in conversation with Meantime when Murdoc walks into Wobble Street. He strides into the living room before he can think better of it, causing 2D and Ace's conversation to stall. 2D fixes a vicious smile to his face as he stalks over to him.

“Hello,” 2D says in a mock cheery tone. “Nice seeing you again. Long fucking piss you had.”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees. “Too much cider.” He spares Ace a look, sat with a straight back and stiff shoulders on the lumpy settee. “Alright mate.”

Ace looks ready to ask why he’s back so soon but clearly thinks better of it.

“I can leave you guys to talk,” Ace begins.

“No, no,” 2D interrupts, jabbing at Ace to stay seated. “No need for that. You're Gorillaz's new bassist after all, since Murdoc's off to jail, apparently.”

“Ace’s explained then?”

“Yes,” 2D and Ace agree in near unison.

“And you're taking it well,” Murdoc says with an unconvincing smile. Ace shrinks back into the settee cushions at the scowl on 2D's face.

“What about Chinatown?” Murdoc tries and fails to follow 2D's train of thought. “I get to decide what happens. That's the one thing I got out of that nightmare: I decide if you go to jail.”

Ace gets to his feet. “I really think I should leave you guys to-”

“It's fine Ace,” Murdoc insists, faux sunnily. “Take a load off.”

Ace reluctantly lowers himself back onto the settee.

“I remember you saying that, but I don't remember agreeing,” Murdoc says, making 2D's brow knit. “Not that it changes anything, I'm already under investigation.”

2D makes to speak when his phone blares Nag, Nag, Nag.

“Found some of the good music that came out of Sheffield then,” Murdoc commends.

“M’not in the mood,” 2D warns. He grimaces at his phone and cancels the call. “I've had calls from Mike, my mum, dad. Surprised you didn't track Leo down while you were at it.”

Murdoc schools his expression. “So it was Leo; I'd narrowed it down to Leo or Greg.”

“Greg?” 2D says incredulously. “I can do better than fucking Greg: he lost his job as a Tesco delivery driver ‘cause he kept speeding on Brighton Road and they took his licence off him.”

“You get that I've met literally none of these fuckers, don't you?”

2D gives him a sharp look. “Yeah, and you're never gonna. Send them all the fucking letters you want, they're never gonna want a pint with you.”

Murdoc can't think of a response. 2D visibly shakes, expression hardening in the wake of Murdoc's silence.

“You said it yourself, you're fucked in the head.” Murdoc’s chest twinges at the words. He stares at their feet. 2D's voice sounds strained as he continues. “Telling my mum you're sorry twenty years late isn't going to change anything.”

Murdoc darts a glance at the door. 2D spots him and lets out a frustrated sigh.

“This is just like Tijuana.”

“How's this like Tijuana?” Murdoc forces himself to ask. “Your cock isn't up my arse for one thing, that'd be a big fucking improvement.”

“Yeah I'm gonna go,” Ace announces before leaving the room, crab-like. 2D waits until Ace has closed the door before responding.

“It's like Tijuana ‘cause you've gone off the deep end. You just do stuff and sod the consequences. Cause and effect mean fuck all to you.”

“But that's the whole point: I should have gone to jail then.”

“When? For the kidnap? The car crash? The other car crash?”

“All of it,” Murdoc agrees, sounding increasingly desperate to his own ear. “I'm going to jail.”

“Not on my watch.”

“Are you the police? I must’ve missed that.”

“I've got a law degree,” 2D says in an oddly conclusive tone.

“What's that mean? How's that change anything?”

“You'll bloody see.” 2D tries to grip at his own too short hair. “Christ, I'm fucking furious.”

2D sounds more weary than livid but Murdoc keeps the thought to himself. He waits for 2D to meet his eye, to say more, but he drops down onto the settee and pulls out his phone instead. He sits, scrolling roughly with his thumb, clearly aware of Murdoc's attention but pointedly ignoring him.

“I need some air,” Murdoc mutters when it becomes obvious 2D isn't going to look up. 2D grunts a noise of acknowledgement. Murdoc lets himself out of the living room and wanders down the hallway in a daze. He finds Ace on the doorstep, sporting sunglasses. The sympathetic set of Ace's mouth makes Murdoc preemptively cut him off.

“What's that daft muck you like?”

“Say what now?”

“That purple stuff you drink, with the balls.”

“Oh, bubble tea?”

“Can you get it in London?”

“In Chinatown, sure.”

Murdoc takes out his wallet with a slightly shaking hand. He pulls out his credit card and wags it at Ace.

“Lead the way and it's on me. I need to get out of fucking Hammersmith.”

*

After much debate, Ace remains at Wobble Street during the European warm up dates. Murdoc misses the buffer the man provides but he and 2D find ways to limit their conversations regardless. They keep to their own hotel rooms, 2D gets engrossed in writing in his journal and Murdoc wiles away the time by asking Ace to check whether he's received any post from Kent Police. By the time they're Wobble Street bound, 2D's insistence in interviews that there's nothing going on between him and Murdoc sounds completely convincing.

The morning of their flights to Chicago, Murdoc's woken by a knock on his bedroom door too meaty and heavy to be 2D. He drags himself out of bed, yanks it open and squints up at Russel as he marshals his senses.

“Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying.”

“What're we doing about Ace?” Russel asks bluntly. “We fly today, we need to decide what we're doing with him.”

“Post been?”

“Yes, and there's nothing from the police.”

Murdoc pushes down his instinctive frown.

“You're not missing the tour because you're waiting for the mail, Murdoc. D'd kill you.”

“That'd make two of us in jail then, Ace'd have to do a Lemmy. We could get that Plastic Beach roadie on synth,” Murdoc muses. “Or just do without. At least it'll sound less like we're trapped in a pinball machine.”

“You can't stay behind, waiting to hear from the police. It could be months before they contact you. You've gotta stop obsessing about this.”

The sheer volume of sense Russel's speaking threatens to give Murdoc a headache. He gives his temples a preemptive rub.

“You know me Russ, got a one track mind. Spent a decade trying to put a band together, remember?”

“Yeah,” Russel agrees. “Be a shame to throw it away after all that effort.”

Murdoc gnaws at the inside of his cheek for a moment before meeting Russel's eye.

“D'you think I've fucked it up? Going to the police, I mean. I know the rest of it's a shit show.”

“I don't know man. I don't know what else you coulda done, ‘cept keep on doing nothing.”

“Exactly, and I couldn't keep doing nothing,” Murdoc says firmly. “And I couldn't just write some fucking letters, not after twenty years. I have to do things differently Russ.” He balls his hands in a bid to keep from filling the silence with his rambling justifications. Russel gives him something approaching a sympathetic frown.

“What are we telling Ace?” Russel prompts him eventually. Murdoc reluctantly gives the question some thought.

“I'll tell him he's staying behind. He's not nicked the lead off the roof yet, I reckon we can trust him to house sit until I hear from the police.”

“Could be a long time before you hear anything.”

“You sound like Stu when you say that.”

“It's the truth, Murdoc. They're not throwing people in jail because they feel bad, they gotta get enough evidence to warrant it.”

Murdoc dismisses the thought as he pulls on his jeans. Russel is watching him expectantly when he's pulled his head and arms through his Hendrix t-shirt.

“I'll go talk to Ace,” Murdoc says in a final tone. “Leave it with me.”

If Ace looks put out by the news, it's momentary, especially when Murdoc proposes that he stay in Wobble Street, free of charge, with a generous per diem. Ace joins the band on the stoop as they watch their Heathrow bound cars struggle to find space enough to load their luggage, thanks largely to Kong 2 hogging the kerb.

“Okay, be safe guys. Eat a vegetable, drink plenty of water.”

Murdoc hands his carry on case to one driver and shoots Ace a dubious look.

“When've you ever done that?”

“I ate a vegetable,” Ace insists. “New Year's Day, 2003. It was an eggplant.” He jabs his thumb back at the house. “I'll keep an eye on the old girl, guys. You need anything, gimme a call. Think of me as your personal Debbie Harry.”

While Murdoc scowls half heartedly at Ace, the driver elects to put his case in the same boot as 2D's. He reluctantly climbs into the backseat alongside 2D and they set off, joining the sluggish traffic on Wobble Street. 2D silently studies the street, mouth thinned in a frown. They get to the Flyover before Murdoc cracks. He shoots the privacy screen a look before wading in.

“You're going to have to get over it eventually, might as well start now.”

Murdoc isn't surprised by the furious look 2D gives him.

“Any other sterling advice? Get over the head trauma?”

“You're pissed off when I hand myself in, you're pissed off when I don't. I can't win.”

2D looks ready to berate him but clamps his mouth shut instead, glowering at a billboard.

“Well?” Murdoc prompts.

“You can't,” 2D agrees tersely.

“Well, I'll be out of your hair when I've heard from Kent Police.” Murdoc catches himself before he can throw in a male pattern baldness joke, leaning against the headrest instead with his eyes closed.

“We'll see about that.”

He opens one eye. “What's that mean?”

“Oddly enough, I meant what I said,” 2D mimics sarcastically.

“That'd be a first.”

2D joins him in flopping against the headrest, taking yoga-like breaths. Murdoc's not fast enough swapping his frown for a scowl when 2D cracks open his eyes. They share a weary look.

“It's a nine hour flight. Truce?” 2D mutters, resting his hand on the no man's land of the middle seat. Murdoc reaches for it, places it on his thigh and sets his own on top.

“Truce.”

2D's thumb starts stroking back and forth and Murdoc fails to swallow his smile. 2D shoots a look at the privacy screen before closing the distance with a kiss.

“I'm still fucked off with you,” 2D says as he pulls away. “And you're still not going to jail.”

“How're you so sure?”

“I've got a law degree.”

“Maybe you do but I've got a one track mind.”

“Five quid says you're not going to jail.”

“Fifty quid says I am.”

“Five hundred says you're not.”

“Five thousand says I am.”

“Fifty thousand says you're not.”

Murdoc catches himself before he can up the ante. He squeezes 2D's hand in agreement.  

“You're on.”

*

Spirit House provides a welcome alternative to a hotel in Detroit. 2D uses the opportunity to unearth some of his old notebooks and work on long forgotten ideas for Humanz Part Two. He's camped out in the studio after a day of radio and television interviews when he notices a cryptic message from Ace telling him he's got mail. He calls Ace and puts him on speakerphone.

“Ace D Copular, cat whisperer.”

“What?”

“What? Hey D, how's things? How's the ghost mansion?”

“Spirit House,” 2D corrects. He starts at a siren blaring down the line. “What's that? Police?”

“No, I'm in that arcade on the Southbank with Katie and Lacey and Joe and everybody.”

“Who?”

“I joined this group online to meet some people.” 2D quirks an eyebrow at his phone. “There's only so much Netflix a person can watch, yanno?”

“Right.”

“D, pal, I don't wanna rush you but Joe just challenged me to an air hockey tourney like I'm not gonna whup his ass, so-”

“I saw your message: you said there's a letter for me? Who from?”

“Hold on a sec.” The siren noises get muffled as Ace presumably covers his microphone but 2D still makes out how he asks Lacey to play in his place and “kick Joe's hiney”. Footsteps follow, then Ace returns at full volume. “Okay, back. Yeah, you got a letter from Margate Central Police Station. I can send you a photo after I hang up.”

2D takes his phone off speaker and grips it tight to his ear. “Why didn't you say who it was from in your message?”

“Because I dunno if Murdoc looks at your phone and I figured you might wanna keep this between you and me, Stuey.”

“Never call me Stuey.”

“Noted. I accept all major credit cards.”

“Accept all major credit cards for what?”

“Heck, I'll even accept Diners, I ain't proud.”

“Accept it for what?”

“You know, for my mail checking service.”

“We're already paying you.”

“Yeah, well, a little more cashola won't hurt to make sure I keep this between us two.”

2D gives his synthesiser an incredulous look. 

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Blackmail's too strong of a word, my nonna would not have been happy about me blackmailing. Think of it like you're supporting the less fortunate. A charitable donation,” Ace rattles off. “Which I figure is fair seeing as how I still ain't seen those royalties and it's looking like I ain't never getting work gigging either.”

“You aren't,” 2D agrees, “but you are living rent free in Hammersmith, how bad can it be?”

“Dude, I've still got rent to pay in Bushwick. I can't manage an Airbnb rental from across an ocean.”

“How much does your mail checking service cost?”

“I'll message you the figure.”

“How many zeros does this figure have?”

There's a pause. “Several,” Ace says queasily. 2D's phone gets a notification. His eyebrows shoot up when he reads the number.

“Christ.”

“I gotta go, I'm missing the tourney,” Ace says hurriedly. “Lacey's good but this is one of those Japanese tables with the one big puck and the lots of little pucks, she's not ready for that kinda gameplay.”

“Why do you need this kind of money?”

“I've got some debts,” Ace says cagily.

“Is this a mafia thing?”

“What, you figure ‘cause I'm Italian, I'm in the mafia? That's hella ignorant D, there's plenty other mobs: you got the Russians, the Mexicans, the Albanians.”

“So you owe the Albanians this much?”

“I plead the fifth.”

2D gives his forehead an irritated rub. “I'll pay half. You get the other half if you tell me what it's for.”

“Got yourself a deal. I won't tell Murdoc about the letter but no promises that I won't mime something on Facetime. Later D.”

The photo of the letter comes through after 2D wires Ace his mail checking fee. He flicks back and forth between the photo and the phone number pad, copying over the number for the police station then dialing.

*

“Band meeting.”

“Since when can non-band members call band meetings?”

“Murdoc,” Jimmy says wearily, “I've been your manager for twelve years. I've posted bail. I've bought underwear. I've done things I'll take to the grave. Let me call a band meeting.”

“Twelve years?” Murdoc clutches at his heart. “Jim, don't tell me I forgot our anniversary again?”

“Band meeting,” Jimmy insists and Murdoc trudges into 2D's dressing room after the rest of the band to find cans of Strongbow Dark Fruit and Stella Artois lined up neatly beside bottles of good whiskey and highballs. Jimmy passes their drinks around before popping the cap off a Bud Light.

“Am I hallucinating?” Murdoc stage whispers as he cracks open a Strongbow and takes a swig. Jimmy holds up his beer bottle in a salute.

“Austin marks the end of the US tour,” Jimmy explains. “Gorillaz's first successfully completed US tour. I thought we should celebrate.”

“Does it count as successful when Murdoc's trying to get himself thrown in jail?” Noodle asks coolly. Murdoc rolls his eyes.

“S'been minutes since anyone mentioned that, I was starting to worry.”

“He's not going to jail,” 2D mutters into his Stella. Murdoc watches him intently.

“If you say you've got a law degree again I'll smack you.”

“Not saying anything,” 2D says superciliously. 

“You're thinking it.”

“So I'm not allowed to think now?”

“Best not to, might pull a muscle.”

2D flips Murdoc off with his free hand. Murdoc smirks against the rim of his can.

“Can we please just appreciate this achievement?” Jimmy implores. “You should all be really proud. I know I am. I-”

“Just say it,” Noodle interrupts, eyes trained on Jimmy. The rest of the band looks back and forth between the pair. Jimmy forces a wide smile which eventually crumbles under her searching stare.

“Say what?” Murdoc prompts, grabbing another Strongbow and Stella from the table. He opens the Stella on reflex and passes it to 2D. “He's already blathering too much for my liking.”

“It's a compliment sandwich,” Noodle says. “That praise was the first slice of bread.”

Russel's forehead furrows. “That true Jim?”

Jimmy anxiously drinks more Bud Light. Russel's scowl grows.

“What's the filling Jimmy?”

Jimmy picks at the label on his beer as he apparently steels himself.

“We've not sold out.”

“We've sold out a few dates,” Murdoc corrects brusquely.

“Not enough dates,” Jimmy insists and Murdoc drinks faster. “The rate we're going, the odds of releasing an album next year are low. The numbers don't stack up.”

Murdoc glances sidelong at 2D and nearly starts at how angry he looks.

“S’stupid,” 2D spits out.

“What's stupid?” Russel asks.

“It's stupid because it's a two part album. We can fix part one with part two. If people think I'm not on enough tracks on part one, I can be on every bloody track on part two. Or we could, if the label weren't acting like a bunch of cun-”

“Humanz doesn't need fixing,” Murdoc interrupts tersely. 2D raises an eyebrow.

“Ticket sales don't lie. Twitter doesn't lie.”

“Fuck off, “Twitter doesn't lie”,” Murdoc scoffs. “It's our album, Stu. You can't just shit on it when it suits you.”

“Since when is it our album? It's yours, they're always bloody yours.”

Noodle gives 2D a warning glower while Russel and Jimmy exchange silent looks of alarm. Murdoc ignores them all in favour of glaring at 2D.

“It's the most democratic fucking album we've written. We've all got tracks on there.”

“Yeah, including some random fucking Italian I've never met in my life.”

“Ace's a decent bloke,” Murdoc says firmly.

“Did you fuck him?”

Murdoc pulls a face. “God no. I mean, I offered.” There's a collective sigh. “But no, we didn't shag. You're not jealous, are you Stu?” he sneers.

2D pointedly ignores him as he finishes his Stella. Jimmy looks between the band despondently, beer label in one hand, empty bottle in the other.

“What was the other slice?” Russel asks. It seems to take Jimmy a moment to understand the question.

“That you seemed to be getting along better than ever?”

Everyone shares a look before descending into slightly manic laughter.

“This has been lovely Jimmy, but I need a piss,” Murdoc says, picking up another can for the road. “Remind me when it's our thirteenth anniversary, I'll get you flowers, promise.”

“Are you going for an actual, literal piss?” 2D asks at Murdoc's back. “Or one of those pretend pisses where you fuck off for days on end and claim to be the Zodiac Killer?”

Murdoc reluctantly turns to consider 2D.

“You're still sore about that joke, aren't you? You weren't even alive when he was around, there wasn't much chance of them arresting you, was there?”

“Jokes are meant to be funny,” 2D says with a snide smile. “And I know there wasn't any chance they'd actually arrest me because I've got a law-”

Murdoc makes to smack 2D on the arse, to a squawk of protest from the man.

“I warned you: keep harping on about your pissing law degree and I'll smack you.”

“See where it gets you.”

“I know you're trying to be a hard man but you're just getting me hard,” Murdoc says with a seedy smile. 2D fails to force down a smirk.

“Thought you needed a piss?”

“I do, I'm not pulling a Stuart.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Lying and buggering off,” Murdoc explains effortlessly. “I can just piss in your ficus if you don't believe me.”

“That's a jade plant,” Russel says, with negative levels of respect, “and we're leaving.”

2D makes a grabbing gesture at Jimmy as he follows Russel and Noodle out the door.

“Wait, Jimmy, I need a word.”

“A word about what?” Murdoc asks. Jimmy looks clueless so Murdoc focuses his attention on 2D. “What could you possibly want to talk about that you couldn't share with all of us in a band meeting?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes, that's why I'm fucking asking, genius.”

“None of your business.” 2D seems to read Murdoc's mind. “It's not about a solo album.”

“I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't,” Murdoc mutters as he leaves, shooting Jimmy and 2D wide, false smiles as he goes. “Doesn't it feel lovely when we're all getting on?”

2D answers by shutting the door in his face with a sarcastic, beaming smile of his own.

*

“Ace D Copular, world's tallest man.”

Murdoc pauses in his amble around Stephanplatz. “2D's taller than you, what's that make him?”

“You're allergic to whimsy, ain'tcha?” Ace asks, words garbled by apparent chewing. “How's Copenhagen?”

“Close: Vienna. Cold, posh, alright. Are you eating summat?”

“Yeah,” Ace agrees with a smack of his lips. “London's having a real bubble waffle moment, y'know? Like, matcha flavour waffles? Sure, it's innovative but is it going too far? I remember when all you could get was the plain kind in Chinatown from a food cart for like two quid. Times are changing, huh?”

Murdoc waits for Ace to draw breath to interject.

“You left me a message, said I'd got some letters.”

“Yeah, ‘bout those: you want the not-so-great news or the worse news?”

“What're you on about? Did I get a letter from the police or not?”

“You did,” Ace agrees uneasily.

“What's it say?”

Murdoc hears the rustle of fabric and paper. ““Kent Police, Margate Central, October 31 2017”. Dear Mr Ni-”

Murdoc scowls at his reflection in a souvenir shop window full of pictures of Mozart's smirking face.

“Are you literally reading from the top down?”

“Well, how else d'you want me to do it?”

“Summarise. When's the court date? What's the charges?”

Ace mumbles to himself as he skip reads. Murdoc glares at Mozart.

“Hello? It's not War and Peace, how’s it taking this lon-”

“They're dropping the case.”

Murdoc sees his eyes widen in the window. “What?”

“Not enough evidence, not in the public interest to pursue a conviction,” Ace rattles off, sounding oddly matter of fact.

“Weren't you surprised when you first read it?” Murdoc asks and hears Ace scramble for a response.

“Yeah, yeah, wow, whatta development. Anyways, so I figure the best bubble waffle places you got in London, in ascending order: that one in Blackfriars Station. I mean, it's fine but what kinda location is that? Businessmen want those waffles? I don't think s-”

“You've been talking to 2D,” Murdoc guesses. Ace's review stutters to a halt.

“Sure, D's a good guy, I talk to all-a you guys.”

“What's he been doing, Ace?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“You plead the fifth, you're out my house on your arse.”

Ace's sigh carries down the line.

“He got some letter from the police station too, asking him to contact them. You guys said check your mail, I did that, you cannot say I didn't do that.”

“When was this letter?”

“Like a couple months back?”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I was gonna, but I kinda half promised not to. You know what happens to snitches.”

“Yeah and you know what happens to the daft twats who piss me off, they get their bollocks ripped off.”

“Hey, take it easy tough guy. It's not like telling you woulda changed anything. If he didn't wanna give evidence, that's the end of it, right?”

Murdoc can't bring himself to agree.

“What's the not-so-great news then?” he asks instead. “Eviction notice?”

“No, you got a parking ticket from the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. You got a couple weeks to pay, otherwise they send a court order and double it or something.”

“What's the ticket for?”

“For the trailer out front. That thing's huge man.”

The cogs in Murdoc's brain start turning rapidly.

“Send me a photo of the parking ticket, I'll give ‘em a tinkle.”

“You're gonna piss at them? What the heck dude?”

“I'm gonna call them. We speak different bloody languages, don't we?”

“Yeah, I understand like a tenth of what you say. I better go dude, my ice cream is melting and ruining the integrity of my waffle bubbles. I'll message you my invoice, a’ight?”

“Your invoice for what, exactly?”

“For my mail checking service. I accept all major credit cards, Diners, hell, I'll accept the Discovery card, I'm not prou-”

“You're already getting free bed and board and pocket money.”

“You guys really think you're doing me some huge favour with that, huh? Free accommodation don't play the rent in Bushwick, Limey. I'll send you the figure, hold up.”

Murdoc's phone chirps and he spares the screen a glance.

“Ace, I've been in your flat, there's no way on God's green earth you owe this in rent.”

“I thought you were a Satanist?”

“Ace,” Murdoc says in a warning tone. “I wasn't born yesterday. What's the money for?”

When Ace responds, it's clearly through a mouthful of waffle and ice cream.

“I owe some guys a little money.”

““A little” money?”

“A lot of money,” Ace corrects.

“What guys?”

“Just some guys! You're acting like you never owed no-one money before,” Ace grouses.

“If I pay this, it's on the proviso that you don't tell 2D about that parking ticket.”

“It's just a parking ticket dude,” Ace says, clearly puzzled. “Not like he's gonna care, right?”

“D'you want this money or not?”

“Alright, alright, deal. So what's this plan of yours?”

“I'll text you the details, just make sure you're ready for the off when we get back to Wobble Street. Go finish your poncy pancake.”

“It's a waffle and you know it.”

Murdoc hangs up with a smirk and sends Ace the money, describing the transfer as “The bribe we talked about”. Ace sends the photo of the parking ticket and Murdoc skims both it and the letter from Kent Police as he walks back to the hotel, narrowly avoiding tourists walking the opposite way down the shopping street. He finds 2D on their bed, notebook and pen on his chest, somewhere between dozing and sleeping. The sound of the door opening rouses him and he sets both on his bedside table with a yawn of greeting.

“Writing about how dreamy I am?”

2D gives him a dubious, if amused, look.

“That's why I fell asleep, couldn't think of anything.”

“Har har. Y’know, you're doing a lot of writing for someone who just got told the next album's on hold.”

2D makes a noncommittal noise.

“You sure you're not writing a solo album?”

“Don't trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you.”

2D seems to read something in Murdoc's tone, lips quirking in a darkly satisfied smile.

“Ace told you I won our bet then?”

“Good guess.”

“I told you,” 2D says, getting off the bed to stand in front of Murdoc with a beatific but empty grin like they're at a photo shoot. “I've got a fucking law degree.”

“I still have no fucking idea what's that meant to mean.”

“It means, I know you can't just walk into a police station, say you kidnapped someone nearly a decade ago, provide no evidence and go to jail.”

“You're still here, you know what happened.”

“I'm not evidence,” 2D grits out. “I'm me and I don't want to keep going over this for the rest of my life. It's eight years ago, the evidence is gone, Murdoc. It's at the bottom of the ocean. It's gone. Drop it.”

Murdoc fights the urge to dig himself deeper. He purses his lips instead, flicking 2D a guarded look.

“So, fifty thou was it?”

“Yeah,” 2D agrees, clearly grateful for the change of subject. “I don't accept cheques.”

“How about services in kind?” Murdoc asks, eyes trained on 2D's crotch. 2D evidently catches his drift, lip quirking.

“You think your blowjobs are worth fifty k?” he sneers.

“Never had any complaints,” Murdoc says, sinking to his knees and keeping his eyes trained on 2D's face. “You always seemed to like ‘em.”

“You've never charged for them before. Humanz must be selling badly.”

“No shop talk,” Murdoc warns as he unzips his jeans and palms him through his briefs.

“It's not even like it's a hardship, you love my cock in your mouth.”

Murdoc can't suppress his smirk. Hands on 2D's jean clad hips, he leans forward to mouth him through his briefs, causing 2D to hiss.

“What gave you that impression?” Murdoc mutters.

“Something about the way you spunk your pants whenever you do it.”

“Excellent dirty talk as ever Pot.”

2D threads his fingers through Murdoc's hair and grips it enough to tilt his head back to meet his eye again.

“Say I was right about the bet. Say I won.”

Murdoc works 2D's jeans down his legs, then pushes his pants down enough to pull out his hardening cock.

“You deaf?”

“What?” Murdoc can't resist asking with a toothy grin. He spits into his palm and takes 2D in hand, his own cock throbbing in his jeans. He pumps a few times, returning 2D's expectant stare with a smile.

“Oi, say I was right or I'm coming on your face,” 2D bites out.

Murdoc just about stifles his groan. He leans in and takes the head in his mouth rather than reply. 2D's fingers tighten in his hair, eyes boring into Murdoc. He returns the look as he bobs his head, setting a slow, steady rhythm. 2D's breath huffs out of him, hips snapping forward. Murdoc keeps him in place with a hand on his leg, the other working down the zip on his own jeans before pulling himself out.

“Did I say you could have a wank?” 2D asks and Murdoc has to resist shooting him an appreciative look. “You owe me fifty thou, you're getting fuck all.” 2D wraps his hand around the base of his own cock. “And what about this lot, eh?”

Murdoc pulls off long enough to mutter.

“Impatient.”

“I just want what I'm due,” 2D snarls, pumping his cock barely an inch from Murdoc's lips. Murdoc fails to suppress a moan. 2D swallows hard at the noise.

“You're going to kill me if you keep this up,” Murdoc mutters, more or less addressing 2D's cock.

“Shut up and suck my cock-”

“Paula,” Murdoc finishes. He takes in as much as he's able before 2D can protest the name, wrapping his hand around the rest. 2D’s hand pulls him closer and Murdoc does his best to take fractionally more down his throat, breathing hard through his nose before pulling away to gasp “m’nose's too broken and your cock's too big for that.”

2D's smile turns smugger.

“Less talk, more blowjob,” he insists. Murdoc shoots him a faux apologetic look before taking him back in his mouth, pumping his hand in time with the bob of his head. Murdoc feels 2D's eyes boring into his scalp and meets his eye again.

“Missed my cock, haven't you?”

Murdoc makes a garbled noise of agreement around his length.

“Hungry for it, aren't you? Look at you, gobbling it down.”

Murdoc stifles his laughter to save himself choking. 2D pulls out and Murdoc barely has time to wonder if his reaction has offended 2D before his intentions become clear. He starts pumping himself, eyes trained on Murdoc's face and Murdoc opens his mouth, practically panting in anticipation. 2D comes soon afterwards, breathing hard and grimacing with pleasure. Most of the come lands on Murdoc's face and tongue, but, to his mild annoyance, some winds up in his hair. He gives himself a couple of barely there strokes and follows, coming over his fist with a whimper.

“Still reckon you owe me a few grand after that,” 2D says, wheezing too much to sound cocksure.

“You nearly got my eye.”

“Good,” 2D says, only to look uncomfortable when Murdoc makes a point of wiping his face with his palm then licking it slowly, eyes trained on 2D.

“You'll tell me if you ever want to watch some good porn, won't you?” Murdoc asks, getting to his feet with a wince. He walks to the bathroom to clean himself up, sparing his reflection the bare minimum attention required to wash his face.

“See you say that, Lady Macbeth, but then you come when I haven't even touched you,” 2D calls after him.

“Steady on Stu, that's a very educated reference for you.”

2D appears in the bathroom doorway and gives him an unimpressed look.

“You can't rip the piss when you're standing there with your knob out.”

Murdoc glances down, shrugs and nods. He waits until 2D looks suitably annoyed before tucking himself away with a smile. 2D carries on watching him, looking increasingly suspicious.

“You seem very happy for a guy who's just lost a fifty thousand pound bet.”

“That's ‘cause I got to “gobble your cock”,” Murdoc says with an approximation of a sweet smile. “Y'know, you're a true poet Stu, no wonder the girls all want you.”

“I know my cock's magnificent,” 2D says, provoking sniggers from them both, “but that can't be the only reason.”

“Fine,” Murdoc says, sobering slightly. “If you wanna know, it's because I've got a plan in my back pocket.”

2D's expression instantly sours.

“What?”

“You know me: Murdoc Niccals, I've always got a plan.”

“What's that mean?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Murdoc smiles before starting to hum You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet.

“You can't hum Bachman-Turner Overdrive with jizz in your hair.”

Murdoc gives 2D's cheek a pat with his slightly sticky hand.

“Yes I can, watch.”

*

2D spends the rest of the European dates unsuccessfully guessing Murdoc's back up plan while Murdoc gives him suitably enigmatic smiles that make 2D threaten to release a solo album after all. When they get back to Wobble Street, Ace enthusiastically grabs their cases and sets them aside as he ushers them in.

“Welcome back guys. Good tour? Good vegetable?”

“Good, thanks,” Russel says bemusedly.

“Awesome.” Ace takes in the sight of Murdoc. “Hey Limey, you're looking well?”

“Thanks for phrasing that as a question.”

“I'm being realistic dude,” Ace shrugs. “Say, you wanna get that alcohol you owe me for house sitting?”

“Sure, sounds good,” Murdoc agrees rapidly, heading for the front door with a backward glance at the band. “We'll be down The Ship and Shovel if you need us.”

There's the tell-tale clomp of 2D's feet behind Murdoc.

“I could go for a beer.”

“We'll grab one tonight,” Murdoc reassures 2D without turning. “This is a mates and bevs kind of catch up.”

“I'm your mate aren't I?”

Murdoc reluctantly turns and opens his mouth to invent an explanation but Ace beats him to it.

“Look, D, I didn't wanna say it ‘cause I don't know you so good but,” Ace swallows hard, eyes bright with tears, “my nonna passed while you guys were in Europe and I was hoping I could just talk to Murdoc. We go way back. He knew my nonna, y'know?”

Murdoc slaps a solemn frown on his face as he nods. 2D looks between them, clearly dubious.

“Don't you want to go back to Brooklyn if your gran's died?”

“Sure, I got flights booked but they're in a couple days.” Ace starts crying, bottom lip quivering and making his tone waver. “Sorry man, I gotta keep it together. We were just so close, she raised me, yanno?”

“Right, yeah,” 2D says in an awkward rush. “M'sorry for your loss.”

Russel and Noodle offer similarly stilted condolences as Murdoc slings his arm around Ace's waist and leads the sobbing man outside. Murdoc waits until they're halfway down the street before letting go. Ace rubs his face on his sleeve, eyes suddenly dry.

“Not bad,” Murdoc commends.

“Thanks man, I took acting classes one time. You think he bought it?”

“Doubt it, but you made him uncomfortable enough to buy us some time. I really do owe you a bev.”

“I'd prefer a charitable donation.”

“You always do nowadays,” Murdoc grumbles as he lights a cigarette. At the police station doors, Ace pulls the parking ticket and court order from his jacket pocket.

“You set for round two?” Ace asks. Murdoc takes the documents with a thankful nod before taking a steadying breath.

“In the words of Republica,” he says, then opens the door.

*

The band sits in the living room in uneasy silence after Murdoc and Ace's departure. 2D gnaws at his knuckle, frowning, only looking up when Noodle speaks.

“I thought Ace didn't drink?”

Hearing his own doubts spoken aloud makes 2D feel a sickening combination of vindicated and horrified. Jaw set, he jumps up from the sofa.

“He doesn't. His gran’s already dead as well. Fuck, I know where they've gone.” He legs it out of Wobble Street without explanation. Once outside, he googles the directions to the nearest police station with trembling hands then starts running, ringing Murdoc as he goes.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he pants into his phone. “Pick up you fucking cunt.”

*

Murdoc's phone starts blasting Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick as he approaches the front desk of the police station. He hastily turns it off then brandishes the court order before the officer manning the desk can finish asking how she can help.

“I got this in the post.” He wags the papers. The woman's eyes dart back and forth as she reads.

“You can't pay that at a station, sir. Just follow the instructions on the order.”

“But I didn't pay it in time. I broke the law: you need to throw me in jail for ignoring it.”

“Sir, that's a court order demanding payment for an overdue parking ticket. You're not going to be arrested for non-payment. You need to speak to the council if you need more information about how they plan to recover the money.”

“You need to arrest me.” Behind him, Ace's phone starts playing No Scrubs. Murdoc resists turning to mock his ringtone, knowing the call is further confirmation that 2D and his mile long legs are inbound. His heart pounds harder. “Arrest me before I shove this fucking court order up your fucking arse.”

The officer gives him a reproachful frown.

“Sir, if you're going to use that kind of language, I'm going to ask you to leave.”

“I'm not leaving,” Murdoc insists frantically. “You need to arrest me, I've broken the law!”

“If you don't leave now, you could be arrested for public disorder.”

“Good! Do that then!”

When the officer gives him nothing more than warning glare, Murdoc starts tugging off his boot.

*

2D covers the distance from Wobble Street to Hammersmith Police Station in half the time Maps estimates. He's clutching his side and gasping for breath when he shoves open the door to find Murdoc, hobbling in one Cuban heel, arms handcuffed behind his back by an unimpressed looking police officer.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 2D snaps, prompting everyone in the foyer to look his way. He makes to stride over to Murdoc only for Ace to rush over and give his shoulder a squeeze of warning.

“Whoa, easy big guy,” Ace says as Murdoc shoots them a pleased, if manic, looking smile.

“Told you D, one track fucking mind.”

“I'm gonna throttle you,” 2D insists. Ace tries to manoeuvre him towards the door.

“Yeah maybe don't talk about that where the police live.” Ace shoots the officer restraining Murdoc a sunny smile. “He didn't mean that, officer, heat of the moment, yanno? We'll be going now.”

2D all but ignores Ace as he gives Murdoc's boot, lying on the floor by the front desk, an incredulous look.

“What did you even do?”

“I got myself arrested,” Murdoc explains, seemingly shivering with adrenaline.

“Did you assault a police officer?” 2D demands as Ace ushers him away. “Murdoc, did you seriously fucking assault a police officer?”

“No, I tripped and my boot went flying, what d'you think?” Murdoc sneers.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHAT'S FUCKING WRONG WITH YOU?” 2D roars but Ace manhandles him to the door with surprising ease.

“Stuart!” Murdoc calls out behind them. Craning over his shoulder, 2D catches one last glimpse of Murdoc being pulled through a set of doors leading deeper into the station. “Ask me what I'm gonna do when I get out of jail!” The bouncy rhythm is all too familiar.

“DON'T YOU DARE QUOTE FUCKING TOM TOM CLUB!” 2D bellows but the station doors have already closed. 2D jerks out of Ace's hold with a vicious look.

“Get off me.” Ace holds his hands up peacefully. “You were in on this, weren't you?”

“Kinda,” Ace agrees uneasily. “I knew where he was headed but the boot thing? Did not talk about the boot throwing, that was freestyled.”

“So you're mates, but you're not mates enough to stop him doing this shit? How's that?”

“Hasn't he told you why he wants to do this?” Ace asks with a frown. “I don't know that I should be the one telling you that.”

Ace's question wrongfoots 2D, threatens to warp his anger into regret. He elects to march back to Wobble Street, head bowed.

“So what was his actual plan? I don't get it,” 2D mutters, looking at Ace as the man easily keeps pace with his strides thanks to his own comically long legs.

“He figured they'd arrest him for non-payment of the court order.”

“What court order?”

“For the overdue parking ticket.”

“What parking ticket?” 2D snaps.

“Right, wow, you did not figure any of this out, huh?” Ace winces before hastily carrying on when 2D's jaw visibly clenches. “For that trailer you got out front. Murdoc's car's towing it, so he got the ticket. Didn't pay it, now it's a court order to pay the debt. They put clamps on too, they'll probably tow ‘em in the new year.”

“Fuck,” 2D huffs out. “What'd they actually charge him with?”

“They booked him for some public order offence.” 2D starts loading websites on his phone, frowning intently as he reads. Ace tries to glance over so 2D leans away with a frown.

“Excuse me, s’my phone, mate.”

“Sorry man. Looked kinda heavy stuff.”

“If you really wanna know, I'm looking at the fucking Sentencing Guidelines,” 2D mutters. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my day.”

“The who what now?”

“The Sentencing Guidelines.” Ace looks at him blankly so 2D expands. “They're what judges have to follow when they're deciding what sentence to give you. Did they say what section of the Public Order Act they were arresting Murdoc under?”

“I forget,” Ace says dazedly. “How come you know so much about this? Are you an attorney?”

“No but I did a bloody law degree,” 2D all but snarls. “So he just threw his boot?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn't say anything racist?”

“What? No, gross. Also, she was white, so.”

“Then he's not going to jail,” 2D says decisively. He pulls his keys out when they reach Wobble Street. After a moment's hesitation, he selects the key to Kong 2 and jerks his head at Ace to follow him inside. 2D heads to the mac and loads some samples while Ace takes in the studio's equipment.

“This place is pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” 2D agrees absentmindedly as he sets Working Title Switzerland playing. Ace pauses in studying a synthesiser to listen, nodding his head to the drum beat.

“Were you working on this for part two?”

2D quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at Ace.

“Murdoc told you about that as well?”

Ace shrugs apologetically.

“I like your music, I take an interest. If you want me to go, I could just,” Ace gestures to the door.

“Go to your gran's funeral?”

“Look, I'm sorry I lied D,” Ace says, seemingly earnest. “My nonna woulda kicked my ass about it, god rest her soul.” He pauses, then concedes, “‘bout that and a lotta stuff I do.”

2D sits down to a synthesiser and starts tinkering with melodies as the drums loop. Ace hovers awkwardly at his elbow, alternating between looking at the mac and watching 2D play. 2D jerks his head at the sofa against the opposite wall.

“Making the place look untidy Ace.”

“Sorry man.” Ace sits down. 2D carries on playing, watching as Ace writes an oddly lengthy message on his phone.

“Who're you texting?”

“Nobody, just some guys I've met in London.”

“Remember your nonna,” 2D admonishes as he tries a different octave. Ace grimaces.

“Okay, so I'm texting Murdoc.”

“Texting him what?”

“Seeing how he's doing. He's not checking his messages so I guess he's still in the station.”

“Right.” 2D makes an open study of Ace as he plays. Ace returns the look uneasily.

“The song's sounding good.”

“It's missing something.”

“What?”

“Dunno yet.” He tries not to let the thought frustrate him. “I reckon it'll be halfway down the album, wake people up a bit.”

“But part two got canned.”

“Not quite: I had a word with Jimmy, promised I could write it for next to nothing.”

Ace's eyes widen. “But Murdoc doesn't know about it?”

“Murdoc doesn't know about it,” 2D agrees, watching his hands as he plays.

“Why haven't you told him?”

“Because if he's gonna be a lying bastard, I’m gonna be one too,” 2D says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He catches Ace's eye when he looks up, spots how the man's hands are itching to use his phone again. “If you tell him before I do, you're going back to Brooklyn. You get me?”

Ace sets his phone, screen down, on the sofa arm.

“I get you.”

*

The sun has set by the time Murdoc leaves the police station. He toys with booking a room in a Travelodge but the prospect of buying a change of clothes for court leads him to back to Wobble Street instead. He spots the lights in the windows of Kong 2 as he approaches the house and knocks on the studio door. There's a slight delay before 2D yanks it wide, revealing the eerily quiet studio. Murdoc spots the mac, screen on but with no programmes running. He's about to comment on it when Ace hurries past him outside.

“Nuhuh, nope, not making the same mistake twice fellas, I'm-a leave you to it,” he gabbles, already halfway across the pavement. 2D nods Murdoc inside and closes the door.

“No piss joke this time?” Murdoc asks when 2D stays silent. 2D's expression pinches.

“You're not going to jail for throwing your boot at a police officer. They'll have you picking up rubbish or tidying up a park.”

“I agree.” 2D looks taken aback. “But they'll send me to jail for trying to bribe a magistrate.”

“What are you on about?”

Murdoc pulls out his phone and gestures to the Sentencing Council's website.

“Handy website, makes getting yourself banged up a doddle, it's just a big list of stuff judges hate you doing,” Murdoc says as he scrolls. “They really, really hate you bribing ‘em, don't they?”

“Ace fucking messaged you, didn't he?”

“He did.”

“Crooked bastard.”

“He's actually pretty decent,” Murdoc insists. “I just badgered him into helping me.”

“When're you due in court?”

“Tomorrow morning. Tried getting them to remand me but they weren't having any of it.”

“Could just murder someone, definitely speed stuff up if you did that.”

Murdoc shoots him an unimpressed look.

“I'm going to jail to right wrongs, not fuck things up further.”

“Thanks for clarifying, could’ve fooled me,” 2D bites out. “Look, you won, alright? I'll send you fifty k right now, you can plead guilty to the boot bollocks, get your community service and that'll be an end to it.”

“I don't want the money.”

“You want a blowjob then?”

Murdoc's momentarily blindsided by the question.

“Well, yes, obviously I want a blowjob, but I'm still bribing those magistrates. I'm going to jail.”

2D clutches at his scalp in apparent despair.

“Why do you want to go to jail? It's full of fucked up blokes on Spice kicking the shit out of one another.”

“I've been to jail Stu, not that you've ever asked about it. I'm aware it’s not fucking Butlins.”

“Don't act like I'm some bad friend-”

“Boyfriend,” Murdoc corrects snidely.

“Barely,” 2D warns. “I'm not a bad boyfriend for not asking you about your prison sentence fifteen years ago. You've never brought it up, I assumed it was none of my business.”

“Quit wasting your breath Stu, I'm doing it,” Murdoc says curtly, returning 2D's glare with folded arms. 2D perceptibly shakes with anger.

“Why are you so fucking obsessed with this all of a sudden?”

“Because I should go to fucking jail! Why're you disagreeing with me, of all people?”

“Because it's too late. You should have gone to jail twenty years ago, and you should have gone eight years ago, but you didn't. It's too late. Let it go, let me live my fucking life.”

“I want to go to-”

“What's the real reason?” 2D interrupts. “You're sick of touring? Fancy sitting on your arse watching telly next to a blocked toilet? Just buy another winnebago.”

“Because I want to live my fucking life too,” Murdoc blurts out before he can stop himself. 2D's brow furrows in confusion.

“What?”

Murdoc gives his eyes a brief, cautionary wipe.

“I want to be able to look at you and not feel terrible forever.” He struggles for the right words and settles for the wrong ones. “I want to draw a line in the sand and say “enough feeling like scum, stop fucking up like a fucking headcase and just do better from now on". That's what I want.”

2D looks openly baffled by his explanation. Murdoc thinks better of pressing for a response and bides his time instead.

“So this is about you feeling better about what you've done to me?” 2D asks quietly.

“Your dad wants me to go back to jail, too. Mike as well.”

“You don't know what my dad wants,” 2D says defensively.

“He told me so.”

2D's eyes narrow. “When?”

“In Detroit, when you were passed out in an Uber, off your face on pills. He rang you, we had a-” Murdoc catches himself before saying “chat”. “We spoke. He told me how he felt.”

2D's expression clouds. “Right.”

“Did they say anything?” Murdoc carries on when 2D looks askance. “Your parents or Mike? About the letters.”

“Yeah. You didn't actually say you were going to hand yourself in but that's what they took from it. They were glad,” 2D admits.

“Yeah,” Murdoc says softly. “I thought they would be.”

2D drags a hand wearily down his face.

“Why do this now?”

“I'm trying to sort myself out. I'm trying trying, like you said to.”

“I never said do this,” 2D says, an edge to his voice. “Why in the middle of a fucking tour?

“I brought over Ace, didn't I? He knows the setlist better than I do, you wouldn't know the difference.”

“It's not just about the band. You're not just Gorillaz's bassist, I mean you're not even the best bassist in Gorillaz,” 2D adds, clearly unable to resist. He studies Murdoc sadly. “Chrissake, we've been doing-”

“So well?” Murdoc offers.

“Better,” 2D corrects.

“It won't be forever. Do you want me to feel bad forever?”

2D shoots him a dark look.

“That's not fair. Did Jimmy tell you about part two, is that why you're doing it?”

“What about part two?”

“Label's alright with releasing another album next year provided we do it on the cheap. Might even squeak another tour outta them.”

Murdoc barely looks surprised. “So that's what you were talking about with Jimmy, eh? Not having an affair after all.”

“With Jimmy? Seriously?”

Murdoc shrugs. “Can't figure out your type.”

“Neither can I.” They share a warped smile.

“I'm not going to jail to stop you writing part two,” Murdoc insists.

2D looks momentarily lost in thought before going to his knees. Murdoc swallows hard as he looks down at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Dropped something?”

2D fumbles with the button of Murdoc's jeans, opening it more by force than skill. He pulls down the zip and yanks both them and Murdoc's pants down his thighs.

“So I take it you agree I won the bet?” Murdoc garbles.

“I've never agreed with you a day in my life.”

“Yes you have.”

“No I haven't.” 2D smiles coldly. “I'm sick of talking, fancied a change of pace.” He eyes Murdoc's stiffening cock before glancing up at him, unimpressed.

“Doesn't take much, does it?”

“Is verbal abuse part of the fifty thousand pound package?”

2D spits in his palm and wraps his hand around Murdoc's cock. Murdoc hardens at the sight of 2D's overly large hand practically dwarfing him. He spreads his feet in an effort to ground himself.

“How many times do I have to say, “you'd probably get off on that”?” 2D mutters as he pumps his hand.

“Once more with feeling?”

“You'd probably get off on it, tart.”

Murdoc can feel 2D overthinking as he watches his own hand move. Before he can say anything, 2D's expression turns annoyed and he leans forward and takes the head experimentally in his mouth. There's a threat of teeth but it drags a groan out of Murdoc regardless. He reaches out to cup 2D's head but 2D pulls back with a warning look.

“Don't hold my head.”

“Sorry, your highness,” Murdoc mutters, earning a smirk from 2D.

“I'd suit a crown.”

“You'd suit my cock in your gob. Go back to gobbling.”

2D pinches his thigh as Murdoc laughs.

“You're not dropping that one, are you?”

“It's brilliant, I loved it.”

2D tries again, moving with fractionally more confidence and enthusiasm. Murdoc makes a point of making sounds of encouragement to signal that he's getting the right idea. It apparently dawns on 2D to pump his hand in time with the movement of his mouth. The rhythm quickly goes awry and there's a momentary scrape of teeth which causes Murdoc to hiss. 2D pulls off with a moody frown.

“D'you wash your cock?”

“What?” Murdoc asks, trying to focus.

“Tastes fucking grim.”

“And you taste like sherbet lemon, obviously. I can't help that cocks taste crap. I'll make sure to have a cunt in my next life.”

2D wrinkles his nose.

“Don't taste much better.”

“Amazed you know,” Murdoc mutters.

“Barely,” 2D admits with a smirk and Murdoc can't stop himself grinning.

“You absolute cunt. Don't do it if you don't want to, but do let me know if there's anything you do enjoy, sex-wise, won't you?”

His breath hitches when 2D takes to pumping him again, mouthing at the tip of his cock with a stubborn scowl.

“I like fucking you up the arse,” 2D mutters against the head and Murdoc can't help gasping.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You'll miss me in prison won't you?”

“Yeah,” Murdoc agrees weakly.

“Not gonna fuck anyone else in there, are you?”

“No promises,” Murdoc says with a smile.

“I'll bite your cock.”

“M’joking. Christ, stop fucking talking and get on with it,” Murdoc pleads.

2D makes a point of staring back at him, mouth clamped shut. Murdoc can almost hear the silent countdown in 2D's head before he takes him in back in his mouth, seeming to make a real effort to mimic Murdoc's technique, one hand fisting the rest of his length, the other hesitantly cupping Murdoc's balls by turns. Murdoc looks down at him, mouth dry. He watches as 2D reaches down to unbutton his own jeans, pulls himself out and works himself over. Murdoc lets out a desperate groan at the sight.

“Fuck, Stuart, look at you.”

2D opens his eyes and looks up at him. He reaches out to take one of Murdoc's hands and awkwardly places it on the back of his head. Murdoc cradles it gently, barely touching at all.

“Am I the only one?” Murdoc asks. He hears how desperate the words sound and adds. “The only one you've done this for?”

2D gives the minutest nod around his length and Murdoc comes shortly afterwards, garbling out a too-late warning. 2D stays put but seems to think worse of the idea in the aftermath. His hand stills on his own cock as he apparently decides what to do. Before Murdoc can propose swallowing, 2D turns to spit on the floor, wiping his chin on his sleeve and grimacing before clambering to his feet.

“Charming. And on my birthday present no less,” Murdoc wheezes, eyeing the glob of come with amusement. 2D shoots him a mock apologetic look as he continues to masturbate. Murdoc presses against his side and covers 2D's hand with his own as he helps him finish, pulling 2D down into an ungainly kiss. They wipe their hands on Murdoc's jeans, tuck themselves away and 2D drags Murdoc back into another kiss, hands gripping Murdoc's waist hard as Murdoc clutches at 2D's nape.

“When's your hearing?” 2D asks when they break apart for air.

“First thing. I'll be gone by eight thirty.”

“I'm so mad at you,” 2D says, voice hitching.

“I know. That's fair.”

2D takes Murdoc's wrist and checks his watch.

“S'already midnight.”

“Bed?”

“That sofa's a pull out. I don't fancy going over everything with Russ and Noodle at this time of night.”

“What, about how you just gave your very first blowjob?”

“About how you're planning to fuck everything up spectacularly.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.” They set up the sofabed in silence. 2D quickly strips to his t-shirt and pants and lies down, head against the sofa arm. He lets out a soft sigh as he studies the ceiling.

“I wish you weren't like this.”

“Me too," Murdoc admits as he follows suit, climbing on beside him. 2D works his arm around Murdoc's back and Murdoc rests his cheek on 2D's bony chest.

“Feels weird, lying like this,” he notes, resting a hand on 2D's waist. 2D hums his agreement. There's silence for a time before Murdoc asks “what's part two gonna sound like?”

2D starts humming You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet and Murdoc lifts himself up enough to give 2D a look of mild alarm.

“It's gonna sound like Bachman-Turner Overdrive?”

2D gives him an unimpressed smirk.

“You know what I mean, twat.”

*

2D wakes to suspiciously minty breath wafting over his cheek.

“I'm off.”

He opens his eyes to Murdoc, thoroughly shaved and sporting a pitch black suit and tie.

“Where'd you get that?” 2D asks, voice thick with sleep.

“It was for the Brits. Jimmy’s told you that we're winning this time, hasn't he? Took ‘em long enough to give us one.”

2D is too busy studying Murdoc to register his words.

“Something on my face?” Murdoc prompts.

“You look alright.”

Murdoc's eyes crease in a smile. “High praise. I've gotta go, gonna be late.”

“Don't do this.”

Murdoc grimaces apologetically. He reaches down, making to cradle 2D's scalp with his hand but 2D pulls away with a frown.

“I wasn't kidding about part two. I'll write it without you, release it without you.”

2D gets off the sofabed to give Murdoc a brief, hard kiss before Murdoc can respond. Murdoc holds him in place momentarily with a hand on the back of his neck.

“I know you will. Make it a good un.”

2D watches the door close behind him. He takes a slow breath in and out then pulls on his jeans and, after a moment's consideration, swaps his t-shirt for Murdoc's Prince t-shirt, lying abandoned on the floor. When he ventures inside Wobble Street, he finds Russel and Noodle sat at the kitchen table looking drawn. They look up when he enters, expressions somewhere between apologetic and confused.

“So, you know what he's done then,” 2D says matter of factly as he joins them.

“Ace's gone to the court to find out what happened,” Noodle offers. Not long after, they receive texts that simply read “nine months”. The words make 2D grit his teeth.

“That's pretty good, right?” Russel asks.

“Magistrates can only give twelve month sentences at most anyway,” 2D says. Noodle shoots him a puzzled look.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I've got a-” Frustrated tears spring to 2D’s eyes and he shakes his head roughly as he rubs them away. He sits with his face in one hand, trying to keep his bottom lip from trembling. He looks up when he hears the front door open. Ace appears in the doorway holding a cardboard tray with four colourful drinks.

“Hey,” Ace says with a sympathetic frown. Clearly spotting how Noodle and Russel are looking at the drinks, he shrugs. “I dunno man, I thought we could all go for sugar and caffeine about now.”

Noodle and Russel take two of the drinks. Ace hands another to 2D along with a chunky straw. 2D holds both blankly.

“It's bubble tea, from that mall over there. Jackfruit flavour. They don't got that everywhere. Looked like a cool shop, they've got some hella niche flavours.” Ace apparently senses that he's lost 2D and sums up. “It's good, you'll like it.”

They sit slurping their drinks in silence. 2D tries one of the balls at the bottom but it reminds him of rice pudding so he avoids the rest. They all look more alert by the time they're finishing their drinks. Russel breaks the silence.

“So, what do we do?”

The bubble tea has 2D's heart hammering. His mind drifts back to Working Title Switzerland and he's struck, suddenly and overwhelming, with inspiration.

“We finish the song I'm working on.”

“What song's that?” Noodle asks.

“You haven't heard it yet,” 2D explains. He nods his head at Ace. “He has. We finish that song, then another, then another. We finish the album. We finish the tour. We release part two. We tour again. We don't wait for Murdoc.”

Russel's eyebrows fly up his forehead.

“That's a long to do list D.”

“Then we better get started on it,” 2D says as he gets up from the table.

“So you figured out what that song was missing?” Ace asks.

“Yeah,” 2D agrees. He gives his drink one last slurp and smacks his lips together. “It needs all the cowbell in the fucking world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the latest instalment! Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (elapsed-spiral) if you'd like.


	24. 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That's why I'm calling you back. I'm calling you back. I'm calling you back.”
> 
> Featuring hashtags, lukewarm milk and a truly dire “sex scene”. 
> 
> Warnings for: language, sex, sexism, homophobia, mentions of former far right beliefs and bodily functions (prison is lovely). The bad punctuation and spelling is (hopefully all) intentional. Unbetaed.

Murdoc tunes out the induction, the health and safety talk, the strip search. He takes the proffered bundle of clothes and plastic cup, bowl and plate and trudges through the wing to a soundtrack of screams, shouts and hollers. The officer lets him into a small, overly cream, cell. His cellmate - blond and young with a square jaw and spots - glances up from daytime television on a boxy set. The officer locks the door behind him and Murdoc waits for his footsteps to fade before going to the toilet. He pulls down his joggers and pants and squats over the bowl. His cellmate turns to watch and Murdoc returns the look irritably.

“Can I help?”

“Don't I know you?”

“I'm having a shit mate.” Murdoc grimaces as he pulls on the end of the condom. The blond carries on watching, somewhere between amused and disgusted.

“Doesn't look like it.”

“Don't you shit condoms?” He tears the condom open and pulls out the miniscule phone and charger. He flushes the rubbish, gives his hands a rinse and looks back at his cellmate. “I'll let you use it if you're nice.”

The blond keeps scowling thoughtfully. “Aren't you famous?”

“I dunno, am I?” Murdoc turns the phone on and tries not to rankle at the lack of messages.

“Yeah, you're always in the papers ‘cause you're pissed.”

“I'm on top?” Murdoc nods at the top bunk before hoisting himself up with a grunt of effort. “That's rare.”

“What's that mean?”

“Don't worry about it mate.”

“Not your mate.”

“Pity that.” Murdoc looks around for the best hiding spot before shoving the charger inside his pillowcase and the phone between his arsecheeks. They fall into uneasy silence, the television chattering softly. He’d forgotten the old trick of wearing a watch too shit to confiscate so he's clueless as to the time. He considers pulling the phone out to check but decides against, studying the damp looking ceiling instead.

“Murdoc Niccals. That's your name,” his cellmate says some time later. When Murdoc doesn't respond, the man carries on. “What’d you do?”

“What'd you do?” Murdoc counters.

“Nothing. S'bullshit.”

“What's your name?”

“You're a puff, not telling you that.”

“I've fucked more women than you've had hot dinners,” Murdoc says bluntly. Then, for good measure: “I fucked your mum.”

The blond's furious face pops up beside his bunk. Murdoc turns to give him a daring look. 

“I'll kick the shit out of you.” Murdoc feels spittle land on his cheek and leaves it there.

“I'd like to see you-” His cellmate punches him in the eye before he can finish. His head snaps back with it and while he doesn't see stars, he feels the telltale throb of a black eye in the making. He balls his fists, momentarily swayed by the prospect of getting his pitiful sentence extended. He blows his breath out instead and plasters a lecherous grin on his face.

“Wouldn't keep that up if I were you. You've seen the papers, I get off on that shit.”

The blond looks momentarily alarmed before gritting his teeth.

“Fucking fag, I'll kick your face in.”

Murdoc lies back and folds his arms behind his head, eyes closed. “Get on with it then. No promises I won't get a stiffy.”

He opens one eye when nothing more happens. He sees his cellmate's eyes train on his upper arm before he disappears back into the lower bunk. A tense silence settles, broken minutes later by “M’Ben.”

“Chris Martin.”

“Eh?”

“Kidding. Murdoc. S'a pleasure Ben.”

*

2D takes advantage of the break between the European tour leg and the final South American dates. He pays the fines on Kong 2 and has the trailer winched into the back garden of Wobble Street. He buys a whiteboard with a preprinted grid and fills the squares with a regime culminating in “album finished. start mastering. Brit Awards”. When he's finished writing, hand smeared with dryboard marker, he casts his eye over entries including “start song 2” and “finish song 2” and laughs at how little room there is for error. The finished schedule reminds him of his old rota at Norm's.

Days two to five are spent working through a decade's worth of half finished ideas salvaged from notebooks and the One Stop Shop. The band check in to see if they can provide their input. 2D lets the whiteboard, rammed with tasks and tick marks, do the talking for him. By the end of the week, their courtesy calls become courtesy WhatsApp messages that 2D ignores in favour of working. He works until the sun comes up and his eyes won't stay open. In his dreams, he watches himself carry on tinkering on his synthesiser. When he wakes, he can never remember the melodies.

By the end of week two, he's still languishing on day ten's agenda - “start song three” - and cracks out the weed. He's most of the way down his joint when he gives up on sitting to his synthesiser and lies lengthways on the sofa, alternating between farting around on his phone and letting his mind wander. He thinks about the apocalypse party and the inevitable come down. He thinks about bagging up the rubbish, putting out the recycling and filling the dishwasher. The more he tries to imagine clearing up the mess and starting over, the more he appreciates that the last time he cleaned was at Kong, shoving assorted shite into bin bags, lured by the promise of a night out in Colchester.

2D jolts awake in the early morning, joint uneventfully burned out on the floor near Murdoc's spunk stain. With mounting dread, he looks at the whiteboard, eyes filling with the scale and volume of outstanding tasks. In a fit of pique, he pulls the sleeve of Murdoc's stripey t-shirt over his hand and wipes the board clean. He drops onto the sofa and lights another joint afterwards to deaden his panic.

Repeatedly and reflexively, 2D's mind strays to Murdoc. He tries to imagine him in his cell. He tries to imagine him writing letters. He thinks about him lying or excusing or apologising for a life of fuck ups. He wonders what his own letter might have looked like, what Murdoc could possibly have said in two sides of notepaper. Halfway down the blunt, he lets himself acknowledge that while there has never been a letter, there have been lyrics and looks that have tried to reach him. In LA, in Essex, in the middle of the ocean and at the end of the pier.

2D sits down to his keyboard and starts wearily picking out chords. He hums and mumbles to himself. He hits on a string of notes and loops them. He sings nonsense words, over and again, until he lands on the only words he's certain about.

“That's why I'm calling you back. I'm calling you back. I'm calling you back.”

2D stops playing and takes out his phone instead when a headache threatens to burrow behind his eyes. He scrolls absentmindedly through his phone book, thumb catching each time “Me” swims into view. On the fourth pass, he clicks on the entry and starts a message.

*

Like clockwork, Murdoc wakes to the sound of water splashing as Ben has a shit. He fishes a used nicotine patch from under his pillow and attempts to slap it on his arm, the adhesive barely sticking after weeks of reuse. He dry swallows medication to keep various withdrawals at bay and stop anyone else answering the questions in his head. He grabs his plastic bowl, bag of cereal and lukewarm UHT milk from the foot of his bed and sits on the toilet to eat.

“When're you gonna have a shower?” Ben asks with a wrinkle of his nose. “You smell shit.”

“Your shit smells worse.”

Murdoc picks at his cereal before pouring the remaining soggy mess down the toilet to chase away the flecks of shit in the bowl. He watches the television but feels Ben eyeing his arm again. Reluctantly, he gives the swastika carved into Ben's hand a glance.

“Wonder if that's why we're sharing a cell,” Murdoc mutters, rolling the sleeve of his t-shirt so his Iron Cross is on full show.

“Nice.”

“No. Not nice. Fucking idiotic. Don't get that thing tattooed,” Murdoc says, jerking his head at Ben's hand. “Just cut out the middleman and tattoo “I'm a massive cunt” on your forehead instead.”

“But they-”

“Not interested,” Murdoc interrupts. “Just twat me one or I'll knock myself out, save me listening to your bollocks.”

Ben looks like he's weighing his options when there's a (not unpleasant) buzzing vibration between Murdoc's arsecheeks.

“Got a message,” Ben says, clearly revolted.

“Apparently,” Murdoc agrees with an exaggerated rumble of approval. He reaches down his pants and extracts the phone, looking through the settings for a way to turn off the vibrations. “You're still welcome to borrow it,” he says, giving it a waggle.

“Fuck off.”

 _ur a prick. u better be ready for me to twat u one when u get out of jail_ the message warns. Murdoc stares at the text for a long while before responding.

_Well that's charming._

The reply is near instant.

_wtf whos this_

_Me._

_no its not hes in jail. ill call the police_

_Stu, it's me._

_prove it_

_Stewart, it's Martin._

_WTF??_

Seconds later the phone screen announces an incoming call from What Now? Murdoc cancels.

_I'm in fucking jail. Don't call me._

_how are u in jail if uve got a phone? if u made all that up just to fuck off i will murder u_

_Bit harsh. I'm in jail. Just shoved a phone up my arse didn't I?_

_u fuckin cunt_

_Just for emergencies. Just in case._

_u r unbelievable. do u get unlimited texts and minutes on ur package?_

_No clue. It's been years since I texted anyone. I can always ask Ace to buy me a bolt on or something. Takes me back to my Elephant and Castle days._

_u got a charger too?_

_Of course I've got a charger too, fat lot of use otherwise._

_wot else did u smuggle? sounds like ur having a rite laugh_

_How big do you think my rectum is? You know what, don't answer that._

When 2D doesn't respond, Murdoc sends another message.

_How's Part 2?_

_fine good_

_Still doing the dishes?_

_no its evolved_

_Gorillaz to Humanz to Super Humanz eh?_

_something like that_

_Right. Well, you can use me as a sounding board._

_how do i do that on a shitty burner phone? bet it doesnt even have a game_

_Dunno. Try writing your humming out. You could float lyrics past me._

_no_

_No?_

_u forfit that when u went to jail. this is my album_

_Thought it wasn't a solo album. And that's not how you spell “forfeit”._

_dont care. u know wot i mean. im calling the shots_

_Lonely at the top._

_im alone wotever i do_

_Right._

_i need to stop texting u_

_Forever? You're not trying to figure out who you are without me again are you? Hoped that was a one time deal._

_it was_

_Never did get an answer._

_me neither. i need to stop texting u and write some music_

_Good luck._

Murdoc puts his phone away and waits to get escorted down to the workshop. Once inside, he finds an unoccupied spot at the end of the workbench, picks up a plastic scraper and grabs a CD from the crate on the table. He gives the CD label a curious look - Duffy - smirks, then proceeds to scratch the disc. He throws the ruined CD into the waist high bin behind him. He works his way through the Klaxons, Kaiser Chiefs, MGMT, all manner of shite, while the other prisoners hum an occasional, out of tune, snippet of Feel Good Inc. He ignores them in favour of whistling Folsom Prison Blues.

An officer collects them at noon and leads them to the hatch in the corridor to get their lunch. Murdoc picks up his usual order of a cheese sandwich and plain crisps and follows the officer back to his cell, where Ben is watching his daily dose of Homes Under The Hammer.

“Martin's looking like an especial cunt today,” Murdoc gestures with his sandwich at the leopard print shirt the presenter is wearing. Ben grunts his agreement. After he's forced down his food, Murdoc pulls out his phone and silently scolds himself for the way his heart drops at the lack of notifications.

He spends the afternoon destroying CDs while the other inmates tell him “the blue haired one” is a bender and currently shagging the population of the United Kingdom in Murdoc's absence. When pressed for a response, Murdoc shrugs and says he wishes 2D luck with that. An officer collects them at the end of their shift and they pick up their tea and breakfast from the hatch before heading back to their cells. Murdoc dry swallows his medication then sits on the toilet eating sausages that taste light on meat and heavy on sawdust, with a side of overly boiled potatoes.

After he's given his plastic plate a quick blast under the tap, Murdoc climbs up onto his bunk, pulls out his phone and finds no messages waiting for him. He lays back and listens to the football match on the television while he tracks the progress of a fly crawling across the ceiling.

“Who's winning?” he asks, rolling his shoulders in an effort to loosen them.

“Fuck off,” Ben responds.

“Hope your team loses.”

“You're a cunt.”

The fly stops in its tracks but Murdoc keeps staring. “I'm aware.”

*

After the Humanz tour finishes, the band opts for a fortnight's downtime before heading into the studio. 2D plans to go back to Crawley but somewhere between opening the Uber app and placing his order, his destination changes to rural Essex. He gets the driver to drop him at the base of the hill and stands looking up at the space where Kong once stood, now full of pale blue spring sky. He walks around the chain link fence circling the site, with its signs warning of security guards and guard dogs, before he wanders back down the hill towards the Tesco. He stands in the greetings card aisle, not so much looking at but through the Happy 40th cards. His mind drifts to Wormwood Scrubs. Never an especially vivid daydreamer outside of drug trips, 2D surprises himself with the ease with which he imagines the prison cell, cramped and smelling of sweat and damp like the winnebago had. He comes to his senses when a busty young woman with a choker hovers at his shoulder.

“Excuse me, sorry, but are you-”

“Yeah,” he agrees blandly. “D'you want a selfie?”

“Oh, er, yeah, that'd be great.” 2D makes short work of figuring out the girl's phone and taking a few half decent photos while she takes great pains to explain how fantastic the Humanz O2 gig was and how much she loves Charger.

“That one's Murdoc's,” 2D says without thinking. Her expression turns wistful, bordering on mournful.

“I saw about his sentence, is he alright?”

“Dunno, he's in jail.”

“Haven't you visited him?”

2D feels himself threaten to scowl and forces his expression into a gormless gawp.

“Nah, not sure how you sort that. And we're busy with the next album.”

The girl's face lights up. “Yeah, I heard about it. That's amazing, it's really soon after Humanz.”

“Yeah.”

“Does it sound like Humanz? I really loved Humanz.”

2D fails to hide his surprise.

“No, it sounds like.” He makes a point of looking thoughtful. “It’s hard to describe music with words. It sounds like a spaceship. It sounds like me.”

“Oh.” The girl looks slightly boggled. “That's really interesting.”

“Yeah. It is. It is interesting.” 2D imagines what jokes Murdoc would crack, what absurd claims he'd make. He stares over the girl's shoulder at the Happy 40th cards. His expression seems to spark something in her and she gives him a nervous but wide smile.

“Your birthday's in a couple of months isn't it?”

“Yeah. I'm forty.”

“Happy birthday. Early birthday.”

“Thanks.” 2D tears his gaze away from the display. “I need to go.”

“Right, sorry to keep you,” the girl smiles awkwardly. “I hope everything's okay with Murdoc. And the band,” she adds hastily.

2D's feet lead him to the nearby Travelodge. He checks in as Martin Penney and while he gets a look of vague recognition, there's no comments or questions. He spends the days before the band's next rendezvous holed up in his room, taking pills and sleeping. In the twilight hours he's awake he listens to munted sounding rappers, interspersed with Squarepusher and Autechre, and thinks about the Margate sunshine and a too large sky. He orders pizza and scrolls through Twitter with greasy fingers, reading message after message asking after Murdoc's whereabouts and wellbeing.

The band meets up in Soho, at Russel's suggestion. 2D gets to The Sun, Moon and Stars before Ace and Noodle and finds Russel sat in one far corner. He gets a Stella and sits in the chair beside Russel's. Russel seems to read his mind.

“You never did give me that Tribe CD back.”

2D snorts an appreciative laugh. “What about the Kool Keith?”

“You kidding me? Murdoc sold that shit for speed before the day was up.”

“Probably,” 2D agrees with a slightly forced smile. Russel watches him thoughtfully, taking in the switchblade necklace poking out from under his polo shirt.

“How you doing?”

“Fine.”

Russel’s look is openly dubious.

“What?”

“I listened to the demos.”

2D finishes his beer to steal himself. “Thoughts?”

“You ready for the press?”

“What d'you mean?”

Russel fixes him with an unimpressed look. “D. C'mon man.”

“It's not Outside levels of obvious,” 2D says defensively. “George Michael, I mean.”

“I got it,” Russel says with a sloping smile. “Sure, it's not as obvious as George, but it's there. Hell, it's gonna surprise Murdoc too. He’s never heard these songs, right?”

“No.”

“You ready for that?”

2D toys with the switchblade. “No.”

They fall silent as Noodle and Ace approach their table, Noodle with a coffee and Ace with something violently green and bubbling. Russel shoots 2D a thin lipped frown that makes it clear he intends to revisit their conversation later. 2D dodges the look by staring at Ace's drink.

“What's that?”

“Soda and lime, heavy on the lime,” Ace explains. He holds it up to toast. “To Limey.”

“Who?” Noodle asks.

“Murdoc, that's what I call him. To absent friends.”

The band toasts, 2D making a cursory effort to lift his glass near the rest. The others descend into easy conversation, talking about flight times and lunch spots, while 2D watches as though from a distance. He surprises himself when he speaks, voice firm.

“Band meeting.”

*

It's April before Murdoc gets another message. He wakes up early, thanks to screaming at one end of the wing and pulls out his phone as he yawns. His thumb twitches as he opens the unread message.

_i had an idea_

_Well done._ He hammers out. The response is equally rapid.

_i finished writing the album too_

_What was the final theme?_

_dunno_

_Dunno or won't say?_

_dunno. ur inbox is gonna get full if we keep doing short texts_

_I'll delete some._

_how do u do punctuation on a little phone?_

_Nimble fingers._

_my hands wud be too big_

_Can't resist bringing your cock up, can you?_

_im talking about my hands_

_If you say so._

_ull like the album_

_It's got cowbell, hasn't it?_

_good guess. im gonna tour it_

_You or Gorillaz?_

_gorillaz_

_How'd you get the label to agree to that? Can't be anticipated sales._

_i struck a deal_

_With the devil?_

_not quite. parlophone_

_Am I supposed to ask what the deal was?_

_im going to run a campain for ur liberation_

_What?_

_#freemurdoc_

_What the fuck are you on about?_

_well make tshirts, hats, badges with it on_

_With what on?_

_#freemurdoc_

_Why would people want that?_

_its funny_

_Is it?_

_its topical_

_How?_

_if we shift enuf merch + get a gd sponsor then therell be another demon dayz too_

_Just print more Demon Days artwork. People love that shit. Put it on mugs, thongs, mudflaps._

_#freemurdoc merch will be limited run. exclusive. people like that, like the figurines_

_Those were daft. Looked nothing like us._

_tru. gonna photoshop u in an orange jumpsuit for the #freemurdoc merch_

_Stop using a hashtag. Stop calling it merch._

_calm down_

_I'm calm as shit. It's a terrible idea. You won't get a sponsor._

_already have. casio r interested_

_Keyboards?_

_watches_

_Jesus wept. You really know your target audience._

_wot? people like watches. people need watches + its like a nod to momentz or somethin_

_What band has fucking watches?_

_rolling stones. beatles. kiss. plenty_

_People use their phones to look at the time._

_uve got a watch_

_I've got a Rolex. I don't have some digital shit with my face slapped on it._

_thats a gd idea we cud use the demon days pics_

_No. That's a terrible idea. Don't do that._

_thanks 4 the suggestion_

_Why are you telling me? It sounds like you've made your mind up, Supreme Leader._

_better ur on board so u dont sabotage it_

_Me? Sabotage? When've I ever done that?_

_u r full of shit_

_True._

_ive got three gd reasons why u shud_

_I'll be the judge of that._

_1: 4 to 1 majority at the last band meeting_

_Including Ace?_

_yes. 2: its my birthday in 2 months. u said u were gonna jump out a cake in a thong. big birthday, 40_

_It is. Everything stops working at 40. Cock, arsehole, eyes._

_was that in order of importance?_

_Basically. What's the last reason?_

_3: do it or i bust out the big guns_

_Whose big guns are they then? Clearly not yours, scrawny arse._

_im muscular its just a lean muscle_

_where did u go?_

_Biting my hand to keep from laughing._

_agree or we release a muse cover_

_laughing again?_

_No. You wouldn't dare._

_oh i wudnt wudnt i? id text one of their lyrics but i dont know any. they sing about stars and that rite?_

_Stars, black holes, electrical sockets._

_how do u know so much if u hate them?_

_Noodle and I'd have a glass of single malt and critically evaluate their back catalogue._

_u mean rip the piss_

_Of course._

_nice dad daughter activity that_

_I'm not her dad._

_like fuck r u not her dad_

_What's that make you? The housecat? The stepmum who's uncomfortably close in age?_

_im releasing a cover if u dont agree_

_You will or Gorillaz?_

_gorillaz_

_Your idea shits all over the purpose of my incarceration._

_so? u broke our promise in chinatown_

_We agreed nothing in Chinatown._

_if u agree u cud provide input. otherwise ill just put in a load of dropping the soap jokes_

_You make it sound like you're the one writing it._

_i am. itll be like a fortnightly blog. wot uve been getting up to_

_You'll be on tour. When'll you have time to chronicle my prison exploits?_

_on the road. in the air. after shows_

_Got nothing better to do?_

_u agree or wot?_

_What've you got prepared for blog one?_

_u asked me to smuggle u a file in a cake so u could escape but i just sent a swiss roll_

_Doesn't flatter your intelligence, does it?_

_its funny. u also fought the hardest bloke in there and got ur arse handed to u_

_You need a overarching plot. Like with an album._

_dont have 1. do u?_

_I'll have a think. Give me a black eye after the fight._

_do u have a black eye?_

_No._

_wot happened?_

_It's fine._

_ur only in there 4 more months dont get urself killed or ill kill u_

_Solid logic. I need to empty my inbox. I'll let you know if I think of an overarching idea._

_alrite. the password for ur twitter is Stuart rite?_

_Yes._

_weirdo_

_Better not use it to slander me._

_u mean libel_

_Yeah yeah Mr Law Degree._

_u need a reputation to damage for it to be libel_

_Har har._

_gtg. gonna snort coke off a groupies arse_

_Lucky groupie._

*

By pure coincidence the LA mansion the band had rented after the debut is available for two months before the Humanz Part 2 tour. 2D takes it as a karmic sign that they should record in LA. He uses the same bedroom as before and the others follow suit, while Ace, unawares, opts for Murdoc's old room.

As 2D wanders the overly white, overly large halls, he keeps an eye out for signs of their former selves, for secret messages or marks they might have left behind. He's unsurprised to find none. In the ostentatious kitchen, he gives the large American fridge freezer a look. He knows it's not the same appliance but, like the old one, it has an ice dispenser. He suddenly remembers how impressed he'd been about that nearly twenty years ago and how he’d told his mum about it when he'd called home.

In the morning, 2D opts to have his muesli and smoothie on the balcony, eyes trained on the Hollywood sign. Noodle and Ace join him, eating in silence as they look at their phones. 

“How's the blog going?” Noodle asks at length.

“Good.”

“It'll be ready for Humility's release?”

“Course, I'm not writing Ulysses.” 2D frowns when neither sarcastically commends the reference. “Humility's a month off, I've got ages.”

“Can I see it?” Noodle asks. 2D considers whether refusing or agreeing seems more suspect but plumps for loading the draft and handing his phone to Noodle. Her eyes dart back and forth as she reads, smile growing and growing until she stops to give him an amused look.

“Uncanny, eh?”

“Mean-spirited,” Noodle says, faux admonishing. “But uncanny.”

“Amazing what skills you develop after twenty years of friendship,” 2D mutters as he takes his phone back and closes the draft, sensing how Noodle and Ace give him interested looks at his choice of word. “Least they're marketable skills.”

“I'm happy you found a new hobby dude,” Ace says, clearly overlaying unease with enthusiasm. “Personally, I'm not into the whole cosplay, roleplay thing, but it's great that you like it.”

“That's not-” 2D starts but Ace carries on, seemingly warming to his subject.

“Do you see this as a band project? Like, we've all gotta write a thing? Because I gotta tell ya, I took this gig for the chance to write some songs, play some shows and get a little folding money.”

“S'been a while since you've rattled your charity tin,” 2D points out coolly. “The Albanians off your back?”

“Yeah,” Ace says with a happy sigh, before scrabbling to add “I mean no. I mean there's no Albanians. I mean how's that love song about Murdoc going?”

Noodle's eyes widen at the question. 2D stares at Ace until the man visibly squirms as he tries and fails to make out his pupils in order to dodge them.

“Which one?”

Noodle's mouth warps with a darkly amused smile. 2D quirks a daring eyebrow at her and they share a brief, barked laugh while Ace looks on, baffled.

“But they're not going on the album,” Noodle says, as though to clarify.

“Why not? It's never stopped Murdoc.” When Ace continues to look uneasy, 2D adds, “it's not like I'm singing about bumming him.”

“People are going to have a field day,” Noodle warns.

“Probably.”

“I could say I wrote the lyrics.”

“And steal my best work?” 2D jokes. “It's fine. It's like Liberace coming out, innit? Everybody knows.”

2D’s phone buzzes on the table top. He flips it and sees the message _El Mierda_ from Murdoc. He fires off a quick _wot_ , suppressing a frown as he puts the phone back. Ace stops studying his cereal bowl.

“Make it disco.”

“That's your solution to everything,” Noodle smirks around the rim of her coffee cup.

“For real, you wanna stop people asking questions, add a lil four to the floor. Our Lord and Saviour, Donna Summer, knew the power of disco.”

2D's phone buzzes again. He turns it over to read _The Shit. He could be some Mexican mob boss who framed me._ Throwing caution to the wind, 2D hammers out _thats specific_ before refocusing on Ace's bizarre train of thought.

“You really like Donna Summer.”

“I got ears don't I? Think about it: Donna's got a song called I Feel Love but everybody's too busy getting down to ask how things are going with her boyfriend.” Ace peels a banana in a triumphant manner. “Harness the power of disco, D.”

2D spares his phone another look when it buzzes again.

_Yeah well Carlos and Pedro always did like the idea of featuring on a track._

_they your mates from Mexico?_ 2D texts back.

_Yeah. They'll appreciate the shit thing, it's a little joke we have._

_rite. just a little joke with the drug lords_

_You've smoked plenty of their product over the years, don't get up on your high horse._

“Who're you messaging?” Noodle asks and 2D hastily types _fine send me ur ideas. gtg going in the studio_

“My mum,” 2D lies, unconvincing even to his own ear. Standing up from the table, he gives Ace an expectant look. “We writing or what?”

“Now? Like right now?” Ace asks, banana halfway to his mouth.

“Yeah, like right now now.”

“I'm eating a banana dude.”

“The banana's portable. If you're not in the rehearsal room in five, I'm sacking you and hiring my mate Matt from school,” 2D says with a warning look. “He played a mean triangle.”

*

Murdoc is so bogged down imagining motives and machinations for El Mierda that he inadvertently scrapes his hand instead of the Eliza Doolittle CD he's holding. He studies the nicked skin and how the blood blossoms along the fine lines and scar tissue on his palm, only coming to his senses when one of his coworkers pipes up.

“Found any of yours in here?” The inmate jerks his head at the crate of CDs. After almost five months, it's a familiar joke. Something about having a head full of stories, ready to text 2D in the early morning, leaves Murdoc with less than the mental space necessary to simply smile smarmily and ignore the man.

“No. Found plenty of your girlfriend's amateur porn though. People don't even want that for free.”

The ensuing fight is over before it's begun. Murdoc lands one punch and the other inmate smacks him in the ear before guards separate them and Murdoc's marched back to his cell. The next morning an officer confirms that Murdoc's lost his work privileges and he settles into the same routine as Ben, spending twenty three hours a day in his cell, twenty four when it's raining. Murdoc trades agreeing to shower for Ben conceding control of the television remote for an hour. On their return from the shower block, Ben slaps the controller in his hand and Murdoc turns the set on, flicking through the channels.

“D'you get any music channels?”

“No. Just one, two, three and four.”

“Tragedy, not getting Channel Five. You got a radio?”

“No.”

“Probably for the best. The shit on the radio drives me spare.” Murdoc settles on some picturesque bollocks on the BBC about Patagonia. He stands next to the set for a moment and watches a few penguins try to climb onto a rocky shore.

“Gay,” Ben grumbles.

“Me or Patagonia?”

“Both.”

Murdoc hoists himself back onto his bunk. He considers leaning over the side in a bid to watch the show but reckons he's not missing much thanks to the pixelated screen. He lies back instead and lets the string heavy soundtrack wash over him.

“It's like I'm there.”

“You talking to yourself?”

“No. I don't do that anymore. I'm very sane nowadays.”

“Saw a picture of you in the paper. You were on the floor with your arse out, surrounded by vodka bottles.”

“You're going to have to narrow it down.”

“It was ages ago.”

“I was probably having a breakdown because I'd murdered someone,” Murdoc says emotionlessly.

There's a creak of springs then Ben's stood beside his bunk giving him a scrutinising look. “That's shit.”

Murdoc narrows his eyes. “It's not. I did. Sort of. I fucked things up spectacularly.”

Ben makes a dismissive noise. “You're not hard.” When Murdoc makes to grab his own crotch, Ben goes on angrily. “Not like that, fucking poof.”

“Not that it's a contest, but I was kicking the shit out of people before you were a glint in your mum's smack dealer's eye.”

The words earn Murdoc a gob of spit to the cheek. He makes no move to wipe it away so Ben disappears from view with a huff. Shortly afterwards there's kicks and punches to the underside of Murdoc's bunk. He lies face down on his pillow, the vibrations rattling through his skull. He ignores the potential smartarse retorts his brain provides, knee jerk, in favour of thoughts about quiet cul de sacs in Crawley.

In the early hours, Murdoc rouses from a light sleep, the room echoing with Ben's grating snores. He pulls out his phone and spots a handful of messages from Carlos and Shitbag but can't be bothered trying to translate the Spanish. When he spots the date, he opts to text 2D instead.

_Happy birthday, you old, balding bastard._

_ty cunt_ comes the reply.

_What're you up to? Texting live from the middle of a groupie sandwich?_

_in la. were filming the video for humility_

_For what?_

_the now nows first single_

_The what?_

_stop being a twat_

_You wouldn't tell a fish to stop swimming. What's the video involve?_

_im going to skate down venice beach_

_Is that an homage to those pap shots of you off your tits, chatting up girls instead of getting ready for our show?_

_yes_

_Very Taylor Swift of you._

_yeah look wot u made me do_

_I'm embarrassed for you._

_idgaf_

_I assume that's rude._

_yes. u wished me a happy birthday but wheres my present?_

_If you're in LA it isn't even your birthday yet._

_it is where u are so again where is my present?_

_I'm in jail. You'll have to wait._

_get creative_

_Get creative how? Drone myself out for a night of passion?_

_havent u sexted anyone?_

_You want me to sext you from prison?_

_yes. im 40. its a big deal_

_“I want” doesn't get._

_does when u look like me_

_How's it going to work?_

_eh?_

_Well is it a roleplay or what?_

_i dont know why are u making it complicated just text something_

_Fine. My pussy's dripping wet._

_wot_

_You said anything so my pussy is absolutely drenched._

_u dont have a pussy_

_No shit Sherlock thanks for clearing that up._

_ur not actually a woman are u_

_What the fuck are you on about?_

_are u saying this because u feel like a woman or something_

_No, Shania. It's roleplay. If you're happy with my gender identity can we get on with this?_

_ok_

_Alright. I want you to shove your cock in my arse._

_go back to the pussy thing_

_Jesus fucking christ, it's lucky I'm not there, you'd be eating this phone._

_its my birthday. have to be nice on my birthday_

_My pussy is so wet._

_yeah?_

_Yeah. Feel free to contribute._

_alrite im rock hard_

_Oh yeah? What're you doing with that big, beautiful cock of yours?_

_Stu? You died?_

_not good at typing while i wank_

_I see._

_im fucking ur wet pussy with it. im squeezing ur tits together (uve got tits rite)_

_Of course I've got tits, I've got a pussy haven't I?_

_then im squeezing ur tits stop being a prick about it_

_I'm moaning ‘cause your cock is so big, makes me feel so full. I get on top and ride it, moaning like a whore._

_Stu?_

_Stu?_

_Fuck sake you've got a smartphone. I've got a keypad and I'm coping. Multitask._

_im trying. wish u had a smartphone want to send a photo_

_I'll shove an iPhone up my arse next time. Photo of what?_

_how hard i am. how im jerking off. how good I look_

_Good for forty._

_fuck off and bounce on my cock_

_Wish I could._

_finger urself_

_I've got your cock in my pussy._

_no really do it_

_Oh. Okay._

_u doing it?_

_Yeah._

_does it feel good?_

_Yeah._

_how many fingers?_

_Just one. If my cellmate cottons on I'm getting the shit kicked out of me._

_then keep quiet_

_Great advice._

_crook it_

_You're allowed to say “prostate”._

_feels like a medical exam. stick another in_

_Okay._

_good?_

_Yeah._

_pump them in and out_

_Okay._

_quiet now arent u?_

_Yeah._

_feels good?_

_Yeah._

_put another in. stretch urself with them_

_Fuck._

_u like that dont u. bet u wish it was me tho_

_Yeah. I do. I want your cock._

_i know u do. put another in_

_Fuck I can't._

_do it_

_OK ok._

_stretch urself_

_Okok_

_imagine me fucking u into the bed. pounding ur arse so hard_

_Yeah_

_twist ur fingers. pump them_

_Ok_

_not big enough is it?_

_No_

_u wish i was there fucking ur arse with my big cock til u cant walk rite_

_Yes_

_talk to me its my birthday i want my present_

_This phone is a piece of sgit_

_close_

_I want you. I want you to fuck me when I'm home._

_ill fuck u_

_Hard?_

_yeah. if ur good_

_Never been good_

_then ill fuck u hard til you wish u were. fuck ur fingers_

_I am I am_

_hard. deeper. shove them in_

_Fuck_

_put the phone down and wank urself I am_

_Stu?_

_hi_

_Nice wank?_

_yeah. hows ur arse?_

_Good and sore. Feeling fab at forty?_

_be better if u were here so I could pound ur pussy properly_

_Let's not call my arsehole a pussy from now on._

_fine. wash ur hand before ur cellmate wonders what u were up to_

_Sink would wake him. I'll wipe myself off with a sock, throw it out the window._

_prison sounds nice_

_Just like Butlins._

_gtg. i want another present later when its the 23rd in la_

_Noted. Have fun skating, sunshine._

_im gonna wear shorts_

_Getting your legs out? Oh la la._

_im gonna wear 70s footballer shorts_

_they had really short shorts in the 70s_

_not getting a perm tho_

_have u died_

_Mental images._

_yw_

_Piss off tart._

_xoxox_

*

After each show, 2D retreats to his hotel room and writes. He checks his phone for suggestions from Murdoc, reads the latest theories and thoughts on Twitter and imagines Wormwood Scrubs. The off white walls, blackout curtains and flat screen televisions in his hotel suites slide away and, with some concentrated effort and the occasional spliff, he imagines Danny Dyer posters and crates of Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles instead. He reads messages from fans, expressing concerns that he's not acting like himself, then logs into Murdoc's Twitter to answer the countless messages Murdoc's received.

2D uses the flight from Paris to Kiev to get ahead with his blog writing, without the distraction of Murdoc's badgering input. He senses Russel glancing sidelong at him and eventually returns the man's look.

“You usually take a couple pills and skip this part,” Russel points out. 2D concedes a nod.

“Thought I'd be productive.”

“You sure you haven't bitten off more than you can chew with this blog thing?”

“It's fine,” 2D says curtly, hoping his tone leaves no room for debate. Russel takes to looking at 2D’s phone and 2D resists the urge to turn off the screen.

“That next week's instalment?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get a sneak preview?”

2D passes Russel his phone. “One of the other prisoners, this real hard nut, has a secret map of El Mierda's lair tattooed on his scalp. Murdoc gets a fan to seduce the guy into showing them the map by talking to him about Justin Bieber. The guy really loves Bieber.”

Russel doesn't laugh or smile. He stares at 2D for a long moment instead, leaving him to fiddle with the buckle of his seat belt.

“That's not funny.”

“I'm writing a blog a fortnight, not every joke's a winner.”

“No,” Russel says with a slow shake of his head. “It's not funny ‘cause it's Murdoc.”

“What?”

“That's a Murdoc joke.”

“Yeah, that's the point.”

Russel carries on shaking his head. “How're you talking to Murdoc?”

2D can't hide his surprise. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean, that's Murdoc. Not you. That's Murdoc writing about Murdoc, so I'm asking you: how is Murdoc feeding you these jokes if he's in jail?” Russel asks in an undertone. His eyebrows knit. “He is in jail, right? This isn't some bullshit?”

2D weighs his options, chest feeling oddly fluttery. “He's in jail. He's got a phone. Smuggled it in.”

Russel huffs out an unimpressed breath. “Don't even know why I'm surprised. How many messages is he sending you?”

“A few.”

Russel waits for him to expand on his answer but 2D clamps his mouth shut.

“So, knowing you guys, I figure I should be multiplying by a couple hundred.” It's not phrased as a question. 2D doesn't offer a defence, staring at the seat back in front of him as he feels Russel's eyes bore into him. “You wonder why he's doing it?”

2D lets himself consider the question and feels bogged down in it and its various possible answers.

“You guys are so wound up in one another man,” Russel mutters tiredly. “I think you forget sometimes D, I've known the guy longer than any of you. I met him when I was twenty, too. He was stood there, soaked in sweat, talking to himself and browsing the 2 Live Crew and Kool Keith in Big Rick's. I don't think he remembers. He figures that stuff was all the speed but I dunno about that.”

“I don't get what you're saying.”

“Me neither,” Russel admits and takes a moment to think. 2D waits in uneasy silence. “I guess I wonder why he'd do it. He could put you on his approved call list, arrange visits. Texting you is the high risk, low reward option. Where's the upside?”

“So he's doing it-” 2D prompts uneasily.

“I don't know why he's doing it. I doubt Murdoc knows why he's doing it. M'just saying, after nearly twenty five goddamn years, my hunch tells me if the guy gets himself a dominatrix to tell him he's an SOB, if, no offence, he chases after you for twenty years.” 2D wants to interrupt to challenge Russel's words but Russel presses on. “He got himself thrown in jail because he feels bad. Nine months is not gonna feel like enough penance for what he did.”

“You think he wants to get his sentence extended?” 2D asks with mounting dread.

Russel gives a shrug. “It's conjecture. D, he thought he killed Noodle, he banished himself to the end of the earth. He's not a man known for his measured responses, y’know?”

“What if I forgive him?” 2D asks the emergency landing card plastered to the chair back.

“What about it?”

“He wouldn't do it then, would he? He'd just finish his sentence, get out in August and that'd be an end to it.”

“You really believe that?” Russel asks, openly dubious. 2D doesn't bother responding. “Would you say it? That you forgive him?”

2D takes his phone back, brow drawn.

“Well?” Russel presses gently.

“I wish I'd taken my pills and knocked myself out,” 2D smirks and Russel gives him an apologetic pat on the shoulder as he chuckles.

“Now you see why Murdoc never sits next to me on flights.”

*

Inspiration strikes some time near midnight the day before his release. The comically hot August weather means Murdoc has been sleeping even less than usual. He gives up on trying to rest in favour of listening for activity in the wing. When he hears nothing save Ben's grinding snores below, Murdoc pulls out his phone and messages 2D.

_I'm going to zumba classes and shagging the teacher._

_wot?_

_In the next blog. Put me in lycra. I'll look gorgeous._

_i cant photoshop u into lycra_

_Not with that attitude you can't._

_stop texting_

_The mental image of me in lycra whipping you into a sexual frenzy?_

_stop texting full stop. u get out tomorrow. ull cope_

_Stop being dramatic._

_Stu?_

_Stu?_

_Hello?_

_Ground Control to Major Tom._

_I know you're getting these, twat._

_I saw a BBC documentary about pumas and penguins we can use._

_Stu, for fuck sake._

_Stu. Stop being a cunt._

_Stu, I know you're getting these, stop being a twat. I'll be back in the band by the end of the week._

_Stu?_

_STU?_

_Are you refusing to speak to me?_

_Are you Phil Oakeying me??_

His phone warns him he's about to use up his monthly text allowance so Murdoc takes to calling 2D instead, over and again. When his efforts get nowhere, he hurriedly texts Ace “ _Get a bolt on for my phone unless you want sacking_ ”.

 _On it_ Ace replies. _D says to stop messaging._

_Tell him to stop being a cunt._

_OK, I'll paraphrase._

_Ask him how's he think the blog'll work without me. Ask him what El Mierda and his cronies are going to get up to without my input._

His phone instantly starts ringing with a call from Ace. Giving the door a cursory glance, Murdoc answers.

“WHAT THE FUCK WHY THE FUCK WHAT THE F-”

He holds the phone away from his ear but the shrieking is still crystal clear.

“Take a fucking breath. You'll need to put a fucking fiver in the swear jar after thi-” Murdoc starts but Ace talks across him breathlessly.

“El Mierda as in the shit? Like Shitbag? Like Pedro?”

“Yeah. Why're you so bloody incensed about it?”

“Why did you bring fucking Carlos and Pedro into this? Why was that a good goddamn idea?”

“Because they're old mates-”

“Mates? Mates?! They're goddamn drug lords!”

“Fine, they're professional fucking contacts and they always liked the idea of getting involved in Gorillaz. It's not like we're giving out their home addresses. It's just a bit of fun. What's the bloody prob-”

“I conned them.”

Despite the sticky heat, Murdoc feels suddenly cold.

“What?”

“I cooked the books. They figured it out, they got pissed, got threatening. I paid ‘em back with interest and we agreed we were cool if I never bothered them ever again.”

“I gave you their numbers as a present! Not to swindle them!”

“They're crooks, not nuns! And their math is terrible! I saw an opportunity and I took it!”

“Why the fuck didn't you stop Stu publishing the first blog, you cunt?!”

“Because I wasn't reading ‘em! I'm not into cosplay-”

“What's that even fucking mean?!” Murdoc hisses.

“It means-”

The line goes dead. Murdoc gives the screen a look and grits his teeth at the sight of a text warning him he's used his monthly minutes allowance. He starts reading through the texts from Carlos and Pedro and, with some effort, understands enough of the Spanish to appreciate that they want to do unpleasant things to his arse and his daughter.

“You fucked up again?” Ben asks groggily.

Murdoc balls his fists rather than agree. He leans over the side of the bunk far enough to meet Ben's eye upside down. Judging by the way Ben recoils, his look is as wild as it feels. 

“I'm gonna fucking fix this.”

*

2D has a minor heart attack when Ace comes careening into the living room of Wobble Street, eyes wide and skin ashen.

“Wha-”

“You gotta fucking stop your cosplay blog,” Ace pants. “Delay it. Stop it. Fucking stop it right fucking now.”

“Wash your mouth out with soa-” 2D jokes but Ace plows on, jabbing a shaking finger at him.

“No time. No time for that shit. Murdoc gave me his Mexican pals’ details. I sold their product. I screwed them hard. They found out. I paid ‘em back but they're still pissed and now you guys kicked the hornet's nest by making jokes about them. Big time. Huge time.”

2D takes a second to register everything Ace is saying. Afterwards, his eyes widen, matching Ace's.

“That's why you wanted all the cash.”

“Yeah and that woulda been fine if you guys hadn't got into roleplay!”

“You never said anything!”

“Because I'm not into that stuff! It's none of my business, the weird games you two wanna play! If you'd said you were gonna roleplay about the Mexican drug lords I pissed off, yeah, I mighta said something sooner but you've been hiding out in your hotel room this whole time!”

Russel and Noodle appear in the doorway, clearly drawn by the screeching.

“What's going on?” Russel frowns.

Ace relays his story faster and in an even higher pitch. By the time he draws breath, Russel and Noodle's eyes are wide.

“So what are we going to do?” Noodle asks, voice impressively calm.

“Murdoc's out of credit, I gotta buy some nuts and bolts for his phone or something and-” Ace rattles off as he heads for the door. 2D grabs Ace's arm to stop him.

“Do you have their numbers? The Mexicans?”

“Yeah. I changed my SIM when shit went sideways but I got it with me.”

“Fetch it,” 2D says, surprising himself with how measured his tone is. “Don't top Murdoc's phone up. If the guards find him using it his sentence'll get extended. He's out tomorrow, he can wait.”

The band watch 2D intently. He takes a slow breath in and out then speaks, more confidently than he feels.

“I'm gonna fix this.”


	25. 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> *
> 
> Featuring rudimentary Spanish, an old haunt and Murdoc's stupidest purchase to date. 
> 
> Warnings for swearing, homophobic language and descriptions of "self-inflicted" injury.

2D's thumb hovers over the call button. He looks up when he feels the band's eyes on him and uses that as an excuse not to dial.

“Does anyone know Spanish?” He casts his mind back to Benidorm. “I can order beers but that's about it. I could maybe ask how to get to the beach if I had to.”

“I know Spanish,” Ace offers. 2D gives him an unimpressed look. “But maybe you want me to sit this one out, huh?”

“If that's alright with you.”

“My Spanish is rusty but I know a little,” Russel says as Noodle offers “mine is conversational, not business level proficiency.”

“What languages don't you speak?” 2D asks. Sure enough, Noodle offers him an enigmatic smile.

“That's classified.”

“Of course it is.” 2D takes another slow breath in, reflects on their current situation, then huffs it out. “Fuck it, here's goes nothing.”

The band gathered about him, 2D dials before he can change his mind, turning on speakerphone and cupping the phone in his hands. The tinny, distant sound of an international dial tone is cut short by furious, gravelly Spanish.

“He's asking how you have the audacity to call this number,” Noodle explains in a whisper.

“He's also saying some vivid stuff about your intestines and your,” Russel's face scrunches in thought, “what's cuello?”

“Neck,” Noodle says.

“Great, thanks,” 2D mutters. He clears his throat and raises the phone in front of his face, speaking shakily. “Hola, que tal? Me llamo 2D y er, yo… yo have… I don't know the word for forty.”

2D's cackhanded Spanish is enough to derail Pedro. When the man speaks again, his tone is less thunderous and more suspicious.

“Who is this?” he asks in English. “This phone number belongs to an ex-employee of mine.”

“I'm 2D. I'm your ex-employee's current employer.”

“Ah, Pendejo’s singer.”

2D thinks better than to question the nickname. “Yeah. I wanted to apologise for the misunderstanding.”

“The misunderstanding where you wrote a parody based on my life and my business after my ex-employee abused my trust and stole my money?” Pedro rattles off.

2D ignores the queasy lurch of his stomach. “That's the one. It was an honest mistake. Murdoc and I didn't know about Ace's cock up, we just thought you'd enjoy getting a little shout out, I hear you and Carlos are fans.”

Pedro makes a thoughtful noise. “The last two albums aren't as good as-”

“Demon Days?”

“I was going to say The Fall.”

2D gives the band a surprised but vindicated beam. “Yeah? What's your favourite tra-” Russel glares pointedly. “I mean, look, I'm so sorry Pedro. It was an honest mistake, but I can see how with Ace's colossal fuck up,” Ace pulls a face but otherwise keeps his protests to himself, “it could seem like a slight. I can delete the blog as soon as we finish talking.”

“That would be suspicious.”

2D feels the threat of a headache but ignores it in favour of frowning hard as he thinks. “What if I finish the blog and say you've retired?”

“Retired?”

“Yeah, like you've started a new life, got a new job.”

“Such as?”

He casts about and draws an anxious blank. “What's the opposite of being a drug lord?”

“Kindergarten teacher?” Ace suggests. 2D widens his eyes warningly and the American apologetically pretends to zip his lips. 2D stares at his trainers while he thinks, gaze flicking back to the phone when Pedro speaks.

“I run a spa. I'm partial to a sauna.”

He tucks the information away for later consideration. “Alright, Tijuana's leading spa owner. I'll get writing it right now-”

“Not Tijuana,” Pedro interrupts firmly. “Somewhere far from here.”

“Alright.” 2D's paralysed brain offers him the options of Crawley, Stoke, Southend and Margate. “Leave it with me. Again, I'm really sorry Pedro. I know you're a fan, so if there's anything I can do to make it up to you-”

“Compensation.”

He covers his face while he mouths a handful of swears. When he's regained his composure, he plasters on a smile and affects a sunny tone.

“Yeah, of course, for giving you the runaround.”

“And for lost custom. We need to sever ties after this error on your part. Pendejo was a regular customer, it’s a substantial loss.”

2D stares hard at his phone’s screen to avoid meeting the band's looks.

“How about one?”

“Million?”

“Yeah.”

“Add a zero.” 2D hears how the other's breathes catch. His stomach churns.

“Sure,” he croaks out, heart thumping hard. Russel shakes his head frantically at him. 2D tries to ignore him, only for Russel to reach for his arm. He sidesteps him, mouthing ‘what else can I do?’ before Russel can intervene. “You've got it.”

Pedro hums approvingly. “Pay me in pesos. I'll send you the details.”

“Soon as the banks open, I'll wire the money. I'm sorry you were caught up in all this,” 2D gabbles out, “we won't be bothering you again, trust me, bye.”

He hastily ends the call and flops onto the sofa, arms spread as though crucified. After his heart rate slows, he dares a look at the ashen, stunned looking band.

“Think that was a result.”

“Ten million?” Noodle repeats.

“Didn't feel like a smart move, trying to bargain with a drug lord.” 2D picks up his phone from the sofa cushions when it chirps and glances at the details of some offshore bank account. He sets about finding the number for his financial advisor with a sigh. “Okay, here's the plan: at nine o'clock, I'm going to call my bank, set up a payment for Pedro and clean myself out of ready cash, most likely. Then I'm gonna write a blog post about how El Mierda's a top bloke and how we should all just leave him alone. Then, Murdoc'll walk through that door.” 2D spares the empty doorway a look, throat tightening. “Murdoc'll walk through that door and then-” He takes a moment to keep his bottom lip from quivering.

“And then?” Russel asks softly.

He sets his mouth in a firm, decisive line. “And then he's gonna pay me back with those Clint fucking Eastwood royalties he's been hogging all these years.”

*

Hours after instructing Ace to top up his phone, Murdoc's still creditless. Jaw clenched, he scrolls up and down his phonebook looking for inspiration. On the third pass, he pauses at “Steve Plane” and, with a concentrated effort, places the name. He attempts to call the number and unsurprisingly gets scalded by his operator. He plumps for memorising it instead, only to find that the first five digits fall out of his head as soon as he's committed the last six to memory. Several failed attempts later, he climbs down from his bunk and tries pacing away his frustration, the floorspace between the window and toilet making it more of a shuffle. The swear Murdoc hisses after smashing his calf against the toilet bowl wakes Ben and the man sits up, looking unimpressed as he rubs his face with his swastika-ed hand.

“Shut up cunt, woke me up.”

“Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.”

“Fuck off.”

“It's my final morning, you should be spending every precious second wimme.”

“What time is it?”

Murdoc checks his phone. “Three.”

“Fuck off cunt,” Ben growls, lying back down and facing the wall. Murdoc edges closer to the cot, prompting Ben to flip over and glare.

“I'm not fucking you, fag, fuck off.”

“I was gonna ask a favour, but not that one.” Murdoc widens his eyes suggestively. “You only had to say if you fancied a go.”

He practically hears Ben's jaw clench. “Fancy a smack?”

“Have you got a pen?” The question clearly blindsides Ben.

“What?”

“A pen is a writing impl-”

“I know what a pen is, cunt! I haven't got one.”

“How about something sharp? How'd you do that to your hand?”

“Why you asking?”

Murdoc shows Ben Steve's number.

“I can't risk forgetting this number. I need to make a note of it.”

“You want me to carve that on you?”

“If you'd be so kind.”

“Where?”

Murdoc holds out his octopus free forearm.

“What do I get if I do?” Ben asks, reaching down the side of his mattress.

“When d'you get out?”

“Not telling you that.”

“So no time soon,” Murdoc translates. “I'll give you my phone.”

“Is it pay as you go?”

“Just the phone, not the SIM.”

“What good's that?”

“I dunno, maybe your next celly will be so taken with your sparkling personality they’ll give you one.”

“D'you want me to help or not?”

“D'you want to slash my arm or not?”

“Phone was up your arse.”

“It's all I've got,” Murdoc says desperately. “You can punch me in the face too.”

Ben frowns suspiciously. “What trouble’re you in?”

“My drug dealers threatened to hurt my daughter.” Murdoc feels like he chokes on the word.

“That's shit.”

“You're not kidding. Look, it's not a bad phone: the battery life’s decent and it wasn't really in my rectum, it was in a condom in my rec-”

Ben cuts him off, gesturing with a sharpened CD scraper. “Gimme your arm.”

Murdoc passes Ben his phone then perches awkwardly on the bunk beside him. He holds out his arm and the man grabs it roughly.

“Thanks.”

Ben gives the number a glance as he grunts an acknowledgement. Then, without warning, he starts to drag the scraper over Murdoc's forearm, deep enough to draw blood and leave a welt.

“If you start carving “cunt”, I'll know,” Murdoc mutters. Ben's lip quirks. The pain gets keener with each new line. Murdoc watches intently as one jagged number joins the next. When Ben's finished, Murdoc picks up his phone, hand shaking with adrenaline, and double checks Ben's work. Satisfied, he climbs up onto his bunk, digs out his charger, then removes his SIM from the phone and tosses both down to Ben. After shoving the SIM between his arsecheeks, Murdoc clambers down and mops up the worst of the bleeding with some toilet paper.

“Hide your spoils,” he tells Ben. The man hastily complies when Murdoc starts banging on the cell door.

“EXCUSE ME MR KANGA SIR!”

“Shut up, it's three in the morning!” Ben barks.

“Almost four,” Murdoc corrects as he slams the door rhythmically with his palms.

“KANGA KANGA KAN-” An officer pulls down the flap on the door's miniscule observation window and shoots Murdoc an unimpressed look.

“Shut it Niccals.”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“You'll be out by eight.”

“I need to make a phone call now.”

“Make it at eight.”

Murdoc balls his hands at his sides, chest tight with frustration. He forces a wide smile.

“Mate, I really don't mean to threaten-”

“Then don't,” the officer interrupts.

“-but if you don't let me make one five minute phone call - the first and only call of my sentence - using my hard earned wages, I'll sing Motown 'til I'm out. Between you and me, I can't carry a tune in a bucket.” He widens his eyes in warning. “And I know a lot of Motown.”

“Eight, Niccals.”

As soon as the officer closes the observation flap, Murdoc launches into bellowing Baby Love. He actively tries to miss notes and shriek and groan the words as loud as he can. The observation window stays closed. Murdoc transitions to Please Mr Postman to no avail. By the time he's gotten to Nowhere To Run, Ben's joined in hollering.

“SHUT HIM UP, HE SOUNDS SHIT!” The man jumps up from his bunk and joins Murdoc in kicking and banging the door. Murdoc shoots him a quick, appreciative look that the man spots and scowls at.

“Want that punch fag?”

“I'm alright, cheers and ta.” The window flap opens to show the officer's narrowed eyes.

“You don't want to get written up with four hours to go Niccals.”

“I don't,” Murdoc agrees rapidly. “So let's compromise: I'll trade my phone call for you going and putting my phone on charge.”

“No.”

“Okay, where's the nearest phone box?”

The officer's brow furrows as he thinks. “There's one by East Acton station.”

“How far's that?”

“About ten minutes.”

Murdoc clings to the cold comfort with a strained smile. “Cheers.”

The hatch shuts. Murdoc gets back on his bunk and stares hard at the ceiling, arms straight at his sides. Unprompted, his brain produces a laundry list of explanations for Ace's radio silence, ranging from incompetence, to outside interference, to Ace getting taken out by the 72 bus. When a familiar, rasping mumble threatens to tell Murdoc how useless he is from inside his own head, he takes to tracing the numbers on his arm, wincing at the pain.

Hours after the sun has risen and started cooking the cell, the door opens. Murdoc barely glances back at Ben before shuffling down the wing, teeth gritted as he wills the officer to pick up the pace. He's deposited in reception and made to sign an inordinate number of papers until his handwriting becomes an unintelligible scrawl, all the while shrugging off questions about his arm. When the officers are finally satisfied, his belongings are returned. He chucks on his suit and Rolex, shoves on his untied shoes like slippers, and stuffs his phone, medication, prison grant and passport in his too-small trouser pockets. He's escorted out of the prison gates, squinting and sweating in the sunshine. As soon as he's spotted a sign for East Acton station, he starts running, stumbling in his toed-on shoes, pausing briefly to ditch the suit jacket in a bin.

Soon enough, Murdoc elects to kick off both shoes, hands shaking too much to waste time trying to pull them on properly. By the time the station swims into view, the soles of his feet feel tender from slamming into the pavement, leg muscles burning thanks to months of inactivity. He lets out a manic wheeze of relief as he spots the functional looking phone box. Yanking open the door, he all but falls inside, tugging up his shirt sleeve with an audible snap of the stitching and rolling the tattered remains until the phone number is on show. He jams the pound coins from his prison grant into the slot and bashes the phone number into the keypad with a quaking hand.

Murdoc clutches the handset, panting pleas for Steve to pick up while the dial tone sounds.

“Steve Forsythe, luxury jet sales,” purrs a receptionist.

“H-” A hacking cough overtakes him.

“Hello?” the receptionist asks, clearly concerned.

He sucks in a few rasping lungfuls of air before trying again. “Hi! Sorry about that!” He barks a laugh that sounds more deranged than fun. “Frog in my throat. Is Steve around? I need to talk to Steve immediately.”

“One moment please.”

Frank Sinatra blasts briefly down the line. Murdoc holds the handset tight enough to bite into his palm. Frank's about to propose floating down to Peru when an obnoxiously Geordie man booms “Steve Forsythe, luxury jet sales. How can I help this fine day?”

Murdoc gives his ruined shirt and dusty, throbbing feet a bewildered look.

“Excellent question. Steve, me old mucker, I've got a proposal for you.”

*

2D shuts the lid of his laptop and closes his eyes, the measly sums left in his bank accounts printed on his eyelids. They snap open again when his phone chirrups with a text. His weary smile instantly flips to a frown when he sees Pedro's number on the screen. Reluctantly, he makes himself read the message.

_Thank you. Send Pendejo my apologies, it was inappropriate to threaten his daughter. Goodbye._

He reads the message a second and third time as though the words might alter. When they fail to, he checks the time - ten o'clock - and walks quickly to the kitchen.

“Russ, what sort of time should Murdoc be getting out?”

Russel looks up from his phone to glance thoughtfully at the clock. “Should be out already, I'da thought. They get people out early so they don't interrupt the routine of the other prisoners.”

2D leans against the door jamb as he grips his face hard.

“What's going on?”

“Why is nothing ever easy?” 2D asks despairingly. He reluctantly returns Russel's puzzled look with a grimace. “Pedro threatened to hurt Noodle.”

Russel swallows hard, expression pinched.

“But you paid, right?”

“No, no, I mean Murdoc. Pedro just said he threatened Murdoc before, said he'd hurt Noodle.”

The way Russel's expression shifts rapidly from relieved to alarmed tells 2D he's drawn the same conclusion. “Shit.”

“Yeah, he's not coming home. He's trying to sort Pedro out and he's gone off the deep end. Shit.” 2D runs his hands through his hair as he attempts to organise his thoughts. “Okay. Okay, I'm gonna to Wormwood Scrubs, see if I find out where he's gone. Don't tell Noodle anything: last thing we need is Noodle offing Pedro in revenge or something.”

“Maybe Pedro told him you paid.”

“Murdoc's phone's dead, he wouldn't get through. Shit, speaking of: ACE!” 2D bellows. The man plods down the stairs and appears in the kitchen, sporting a preemptive grimace.

“Hey, D, how's-”

“Top Murdoc's phone up.”

Ace looks between the pair, openly perplexed.

“I thought we were doing the thing where we keep Limey from using his phone?”

“He's out now, but he's off on some mad bullshit, about to get himself killed, so top up his phone,” 2D snaps.

“Wait, what, what's going o-”

“What part of this seems like a dialogue to you?” 2D interrupts frantically. “Top his phone up or I'll rip your fucking cock off!”

Ace's eyebrows fly up his forehead. “O-kay, you're clearly under a lot of pressure right now, so imma let that sli-”

2D points threateningly at Ace's crotch and the man reverses out of the room with a mutter of “jeez, you British guys are mean.”

“Cool it,” Russel warns in the man's wake. “When you say shit like that you sound like-”

2D finishes pulling on his trainers and gives Russel a dark look. “Don't even.” He jams his wallet, keys and phone in his jacket pockets and makes for the front door. “Ring Jimmy. Please. See if he's heard anything.”

“Alright. I'll check The Ship and Shovel too, just in case he decided to go celebrate getting out and forgot to tell us.” Russel sounds as hopeful about the possibility as 2D feels.

“If he's there, call me. And get me a pint of Stella.”

“At half ten in the morning?”

2D throws a wild eyed look over his shoulder as he heads out the door. “I'll need it.”

*

“Who'm I speaking to?” Steve chuckles.

“Murdoc Niccals. We met at the Gorillaz launch party last year.” Steve sound ready to enthuse so Murdoc speeds up. “I don't have a lot of time so let's get to it: how quickly can you get a plane fueled and ready to fly to Tijuana?”

“I think you'd need to stop and refuel in Mexico City, but I can sort it all out for tomorrow morning,” Steve says smoothly. “What's your budg-”

“How about noon?”

“Noon today?”

“Yeah. Noon today. How much for a plane to Tijuana and a car to collect me from East Acton tube station? Oh, and fling a phone charger in the car.”

“What?” Steve asks dazedly.

“Steve, mate, I don't have time to repeat myself.”

“You're looking to buy a plane?”

“I'm looking to buy a plane that'll take off at noon. Name your price.”

Murdoc hears keyboard keys clacking while Steve mumbles figures to himself.

“Time's ticking Steve. If you get me in the air by eleven, I'll double it.”

“Ten million,” comes the firm reply.

“Is that doubled?”

“No.”

“Fuck me sideways Steve,” Murdoc winces. He remembers the smoking wreckage of the island. He remembers her funeral. He scrunches his eyes shut as though it'll soften the blow. “Alright, deal.”

“How are you paying?”

“Bring a laptop, I'll pay in the car.”

There's a skeptical silence from Steve.

“Twenty mil, Steve. It's worth a punt isn't it?” Murdoc's ready to start begging when an idea strikes. “Actually, you can get two mil now, as down-payment. Call Walter Kenny, say they should pay you the money in my Tropical Island escrow. The passwords are Carol1978 with a capital C and 5eba5tianCunt, with a capital C on cunt, and 5s for the Ss in Sebastian. Got it?”

“Carol1978, capital C, 5eba5tianCunt, 5s instead of Ss, capital C again.”

The phone pips as Murdoc's credit runs low. He starts speaking double-time. “Spot on. Alright, I'm about to get cut off, when can I expect the car?”

“Give it twenty minutes. I'll pick you up myself Murdoc. Look for a BMW.”

“Steve, I could snog you.”

The call cuts off before Murdoc hears Steve's reaction. He drops the handset back on the cradle and slumps to a crouch on the floor. Eyes trained on the road, he wills the BMW to appear with a wheezed “piece of piss.”

*

2D spots the suit jacket hanging limply from a bin as he jogs towards the Wormwood Scrubs gatehouse. He picks it up by the collar, feels the weight of the fabric and knows instinctively it's Murdoc's. He's momentarily thrown by his discovery, enough that he inspects it and notices a small brown stain on the silk lining of one inside out sleeve. He's verging on touching the dried blood when his phone starts ringing. When he sees it's Jimmy calling, he drops the jacket back in the bin and answers.

“Russel caught me up,” Jimmy says abruptly. “Have you found him?”

“Just his jacket, so he's definitely out already.”

“Yeah, he's out,” Jimmy agrees in a long suffering tone. “I rang Walter Kenny.”

“The Kong people?”

“Kong, Plastic Beach, Wobble Street.”

2D notices something black lying on the pavement further down the road and carries on running.

“They talked to you about Murdoc? Can they do that?”

“They're Murdoc's realtors of choice, they're not exactly reputable. We've bonded over trying to herd you guys, we help each other out.”

“What'd they say?”

“He authorised a payment of two million from an old escrow to a private jet salesman.”

Murdoc's plan dawns on 2D as he comes level with one of Murdoc's dress shoes.

“He's going to Tijuana.”

“Looks that way.”

“Do we know what airport? When?”

“Not yet, but I know the company: Steve Forsythe. I've got their number: do you wanna call or should I?”

“I'll do it.”

“Keep me posted D,” Jimmy signs off, the phone number following shortly after. 2D dials.

“Steve Forsythe, luxury jet sales,” the receptionist purrs.

“Hi, I need to talk to Steve right now.”

“Steve is out of the office today. I can take a message or transfer you to a member of his team.”

“Is he with Murdoc Niccals?” The receptionist fumbles for an answer. “I'll take that as a yes. Where did they go, what airport?”

“I'm not sure I can tell you that sir.”

“Can you give me Steve's mobile number?” 2D presses.

“He's asked not to be disturbed today. I can pass along your message, he'll return your call as soon as possible.”

“What's your name?”

“Claire,” the receptionist says grudgingly.

“Claire, I'm begging, I need his mobile number,” 2D says, looking at a sign for East Acton station and deciding to follow it. “You know who Murdoc is, yeah?”

“Of course, he's the guitarist from Gorillaz.”

“Close. This is 2D, Gorillaz's frontman. I need to stop Murdoc doing something stupid. Please let me talk to Steve.”

Claire makes an uncertain noise. At the station, 2D busies himself with studying the tube map. While it's anything but clear where Murdoc was headed, 2D's hunch tells him Heathrow, given it's the nearest of the airports.

“What can I do to get you to say yes?” 2D asks desperately. “Flowers? Chocolates? Autograph? Designer handbag? Backstage pass-”

Seemingly in a bid to shut him up, Claire reads out a number.

“Could you text it me? Sorry, not got a pen.”

“Okay,” she agrees reluctantly. “There's no guarantee he'll answer.”

“I know, I know. You're a star, Claire,” 2D enthuses.

“Tell him you found it online somewhere.”

“Gotcha.”

The line goes dead and Steve's number quickly follows. As warned, 2D rings and rings to no avail and eventually he's diverted to voicemail.

“Hi,” he says after the beep. “This is 2D. From Gorillaz. The band. Uh, my manager found your number: he reckons you're with Murdoc and he's about to fly to Mexico? Don't let him. He's nuts. Please call me back as soon as you get this, cheers.”

2D tries to book an Uber to Heathrow, only for his cards to be rejected, one by one, thanks to his earlier spending spree. He rifles in his wallet until he finds an old Oyster card, taps it on the ticket barrier and gives the ceiling a quick, thankful look when it lets him through. A relatively quiet train pulls in as he reaches the platform and he flops onto a seat in an empty carriage.

“Easy peasy,” he sighs as the train sets off.

*

“Sorry about that,” Steve booms from the driver's seat as he turns off his chirruping phone. “I'm never usually this popular!”

Murdoc looks up from the laptop, closing his bank's website with a last, forlorn look at his new balance.

“When d'you reckon I'll be in the air?”

“With any luck, eleven on the dot,” Steve says, clearly pleased with himself.

“And how much charge does my phone have now?”

Steve picks it up from the cup holder. “About thirty percent.”

“Good stuff,” Murdoc says. He reaches down the back of his pants for his SIM and comes up empty handed. Frowning, he ferrets around between his arsecheeks, under his balls, under his cock, to no avail. He yanks down his trousers hard enough that the back seam tears. Steve shoots him an alarmed look in the rearview mirror.

“Everything alright back there?”

“Should have stuck it in my arse,” Murdoc mutters ruefully. “I've lost my SIM. Phone's a fat lot of good without that.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I need your phone.”

Steve darts a look over his shoulder when they reach traffic lights.

“To borrow?”

“Indefinitely, yes.”

“I need it for business Murdoc, sorry.”

“You already said no to giving me your shoes.”

“And I said I'd gladly give them to you but you'd walk right out of them.”

“My feet aren't that small,” Murdoc scowls as he scrats around in the footwell, searching futilely for his SIM.

Steve diplomatically opts to ask “what happened to your shoes again?”

“One of those moped robbers nicked 'em. Terrible blight on the capital,” Murdoc bullshits. “I wore this lot to court, regretting it now, obviously.”

“Did you literally get out of jail today?”

“When did this turn into This Is Your Life?” Murdoc gripes, giving up his search and glaring at Steve through the rearview mirror. “Gimme your bloody phone. I just paid you twenty mil. Unless it's got state secrets on it, you're still getting a good deal.”

“Fair point,” Steve says, passing it back to Murdoc. He turns it on, ignoring the inordinate number of missed calls to open the dialer. He stares at the keypad, waiting for 2D's number to come to him, only to draw a blank.

“Love the new album, by the way,” Steve gushes to fill the silence.

“Great, cheers,” Murdoc says absently as he types several numbers, only to delete half with a shake of his head.

“Really catchy, nice and summery.”

“I haven't heard it,” he says, sounding surprised to his own ear.

“Didn't you write it?”

“No, none of it.” The admission adds to the jittery feeling in Murdoc's empty stomach.

Steve laughs nervously. “Well, it's on my phone,” he passes a set of earbuds back to Murdoc, “you could give it a listen on the way.”

“Yeah, I could.”

Murdoc's about to try another number when they arrive at Biggin Hill airfield, pulling alongside a plane that bears more than a passing resemblance to the one the band had chartered from LA to London years ago. He's ushered inside by Steve, who gives him a whirlwind tour of the Italian leather seats and tasteful low level lighting, while a steward magics his passport away for processing. It's not long before the pilot confirms the plane is fuelled and cleared to taxi. Steve gives Murdoc an energetic, two handed handshake.

“Good luck with everything in Mexico Murdoc. Great doing business.”

Murdoc gives him a pained smile before he's ushered into a plush chair for take off. He takes the whiskey proffered by a steward and necks it. Preemptively, he sticks the earbuds in to try and keep his ears from popping. He opens Spotify and stares at the cover art for a moment, mouth twisting in a tired smile at the sight of 2D holding an acoustic like he has any clue how to play it. He starts the album, if only to drown out the unnervingly metallic noise the engines make as they work harder while the plane climbs. Hands gripping the cushioned armrests, the tropical sounding drums take him by surprise. He closes his eyes tight and focuses on the sun soaked guitar. He lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding when 2D starts singing. The music swallows him up and surrounds him, drowning out worst case scenarios of what awaits in Tijuana. He focuses hard on 2D's oddly modulated voice on the next track, instead of considering whether he's on a hiding to nothing, flying west when Pedro's already eastbound.

At first, Murdoc takes his customary approach to listening to new tracks, making a mental note of what he plans to change, tweak, add or lose. Over time, the urge fades, replaced by the realisation that what he's hearing sounds nothing like doing the dishes. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given 2D's forewarning about the evolution of Humanz Part 2, but Murdoc still feels lost in the mishmash of genres and too loud bass.

Towards the album's close, Murdoc opens his eyes and looks to the window. Cloud presses up against the porthole shaped glass. When the album's over, he finally releases his grip on the armrest and jabs the repeat button. On the second listen, he hears the joins between ideas, feels how 2D has cobbled together old and new, the stark contrast between the considered and the rushed. He hears 1998, 2002, 2010 and 2018, falling over one another and muddling together. Whether optimistically or naively, he feels himself make an instinctive mental note of the bass lines, ready for tour dates he may or may not live to see.

He reaches the end of the album again. The cheerful, now familiar, opening beat starts up. He presses pause and catches the eye of a steward, sat primly several seats back.

“Double whiskey, cheers.” He downs the drink before pressing play, ears pricked for the lyrics this time. It feels surreal, hearing 2D sing something beside his own words. It feels more surreal, the conviction with which Murdoc knows, not rationally or logically, but in his bone marrow, that 2D's speaking to him. He reaches the end of the album and goes straight back to the beginning.

*

2D plays the celebrity card when he gets to security at Heathrow. After a muttered conversation in a conspicuous huddle, the staff there decide they do know who he is and one zips off to roust out a well presented woman from the VIP gates. The hostess explains that she's not in a position to discuss traveller's itineraries but, following some heavy duty flirting, concedes that there have been no Mexico bound flights that morning.

He decamps at the back of the first Caffè Costa he finds with a double chocolate frappuccino and tries Steve's phone a couple more times with no success. He's caught between formulating another course of action and giving in to tears when it occurs to him that he's yet to even finish enacting his own plan, let alone sabotage Murdoc's.

He opens a fresh Word document on his phone and starts writing. He casts his mind back over everything's he's invented over the summer, along with Murdoc's stupid embellishments. He works in Noodle saving the day with characteristic confidence and capability. He adds Murdoc being so consumed by guilt that he can't think straight. At the end of his paragraph, 2D finishes his drink and goes to order another.

He reads back his draft. With a frustrated frown he deletes the section about Murdoc's release from prison and starts over. Instead, he has Murdoc concocting an idiotic scheme, leaping before he looks and winding up sinking, knee deep, neck deep, in shit. 2D surfaces for air again and takes a moment to people watch, studying the couples, families and businessmen marching around the airport beyond the cafe doors as though from a great height. He ignores the way his fingers tremble from all the sugar and stress and dives back in with a sigh.

Murdoc pleads for help. For his life. Murdoc all but drowns. Murdoc-

2D shoves his phone in his pocket and goes to order another drink with the dwindling cash in his wallet, staring blankly at the overly long, overly elaborate menu while he waits. He resents how quickly his drink arrives, leaving him with no excuse but to trudge back to his table, reopen his draft and finish what he's started.

Murdoc apologies for everything and nothing. Murdoc passes out instead of sorting things out. 2D reads his words back and feels their absurdity like a weight bowing his shoulders. When Pedro's threats swim back to the forefront of his mind, he readies his thumbs for cobbling together a resolution.

“C'mon Pot,” he mutters, mouth thinning. “Finish this.”

He adds a light at the end of the tunnel. A light, and a shadowy figure. They pull Murdoc out of the shit and leave him at the side of the road, alone but alive. Teeth gritted, 2D turns his attention to grafting together the various elements of the post until they make as much sense as he can muster. A phone call from a landline interrupts his efforts.

“Hello?” he answers uneasily.

“2D, how's it going pal?” some Geordie booms. “It's Steve Forsythe, luxury jet sales. Sorry I missed your call earlier, how can I-”

“Murdoc's on his way to Tijuana, isn't he?” 2D cuts across.

“Took off a couple of hours ago.”

He pulls a face at his melting drink. “Can you arrange for him to fly right back? To Heathrow, preferably?”

Steve makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “Bit of a whirlwind trip, that.”

“Did you ask why he wanted a plane?” he asks coolly.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“He had no shoes on.”

“He's always been a bit eccentric,” Steve says, clearly trying to laugh off the criticism.

“Get him back ASAP or I'll get Trading Standards onto you for taking advantage of a vulnerable, stupid, old bloke,” 2D warns with more relish than strictly necessary. “I'm a lawyer, I'll have you-”

“Alright, alright,” Steve rushes, forcing an even heartier laugh. “I'm on it Rumpole!”

“Thanks,” he grits out. “Is there any way of getting a message to him before he lands?”

“Unfortunately not. Oh, but when does, he's got my phone, he lost his.”

“When will he land?”

“I'd say about eight hours’ time.”

2D props his elbow on the table and rests his forehead heavily in his palm.

“I can get my PA to text you when I've got a departure time,” Steve offers.

“Thanks,” 2D says unenthusiastically.

“Good luck with it all. Great new album by the wa-”

2D blindly jabs the call end button and buries his face in his palm for a moment. Then, with a deep breath in, he googles Caffè Costa's opening hours.

*

As the plane descends, Murdoc's latest repeat of The Now Now gets interrupted by chiming notifications from Steve's phone, alerting him to dozens of missed calls. Countless text messages start trickling through, all with iterations of the same caps lock message: that the sender is 2D, that he's fixed things with Pedro, that they're all safe and Murdoc needs to stop whatever he's doing immediately. An incoming call takes over the screen. With a bracing breath, Murdoc accepts.

“You landed?” 2D asks. His voice, scratchy with stress, is a marked contrast to the album recordings.

“We're descending,” Murdoc agrees. “Good guess.”

“I know what you're up to, but you need to stop. I've sorted it.”

“You've sorted it? You've sorted the drug lord problem?”

“Yeah. Don't go fucking it up again.” Tone softening, 2D adds “Noodle's okay.”

Murdoc’s eyes grow hot. He lets a few weary tears escape before pulling himself together with a hard sniff and a blink. He nods his reply, for all the good it does.

“I've sorted it with Steve, you're coming straight back,” 2D says authoritatively.

“Because you've fixed everything?”

“Yeah.”

“And how did you manage that exactly?” Murdoc's brow knits hard as he attempts to reconcile what he's hearing with his own fuzzy plan of action.

“I promised I'd write a final blog explaining that El Mierda's hide out is somewhere far, far from Tijuana. I'm gonna say he's retired from crime and that, and nowadays he's just a nice bloke with a health spa.”

Murdoc waits for further explanation but none is forthcoming. “That makes precisely no sense.”

He practically hears 2D bristle. “I got drug lords off our backs and you're giving my methods marks out of ten?”

“Alright, alright,” Murdoc runs a hand wearily down his face. “I'm here now though, sure there's no merit in me having a word? I could pop 'round with a box of Milk Tray to say sorry.”

“Since I agreed we'd never bother him ever again? Yeah, I reckon that's a terrible idea.”

Twelve hours of air travel do nothing for Murdoc's wits. “How was writing Pedro a short story enough to calm him down? Did you offer him a feature on a song too? He always did fancy writing some musi-”

“I paid him off,” 2D interrupts queasily. Murdoc's jaw clenches preemptively.

“How much did you pay?”

“Ten.” There's a pained silence. “How much'd that plane cost?”

“Twenty.”

“Jesus christ,” 2D says weakly.

Murdoc only appreciates having landed when he sees tarmac and scrubby grass outside. His brain keeps stalling with the effort to concoct some solution to their buggers muddle.

“Can I send it you?” 2D asks uneasily, jerking Murdoc out of his thoughts.

““It”?”

“The blog post. You can read it while they refuel the plane.”

“Why d'you need my input? Sounds like you've got it all under control,” Murdoc says a little snidely.

“My plan was half the price of yours.”

“And what a bargain it was.”

“I don't need your input,” 2D says, tone suggesting he's derailing an argument before it can start. “I just think you should read it.”

Murdoc's stomach twists with the possibilities. He swallows against sudden sourness. “Alright.”

“I'll email it. Can you log into your account?”

“Gimme a sec,” Murdoc says as he's ushered off the plane and into a lounge. He logs Steve out and himself into email. “Sorted, fire away.”

There's a momentary silence. “Check you've got it.”

He glances at the phone screen and sees an ominously titled email - “the end” - materialise.

“Got it.”

“Good.”

He ambles to the gleaming duty free shop and stares at a display of souvenirs while he finds the wherewithal to speak again.

“I've heard the album.” He imagines he hears 2D's breath falter.

“Not great, is it?”

“You wrote it in a couple of months. It's not bad.”

“In a month, actually,” 2D corrects, before conceding, “I wrote it in twenty years.” There's an audible sigh. “It's not great.”

Murdoc searches for words among tidy rows of crystallised, fossilised somethings. When they eventually come to him, he has to force them out.

“Thank you.”

2D huffs a wry laugh. “D'you really think you should be thanking me?”

“It's what I deserve.”

“Maybe. It's what you're getting.” They share the silence, Murdoc leaning his head heavily against the phone. He imagines 2D doing the same. There's a yawn down the line.

“What time is it there?”

“Just gone midnight.”

“Don't let me keep you up.”

“I'm already at Heathrow. Thought I might catch you before you left.”

“Gonna head back to Wobble Street?”

There's a pause while 2D apparently weighs his options. “Think I'll just stay here. I can keep working on the blog while you're in the air.”

“Very productive.”

“Yeah. Death threats from drug lords are a great motivator.”

“Got some good deals on tequila in duty free,” Murdoc says, mostly to keep 2D on the line.

“Not sure Jimmy'll appreciate you loading up on tequila when he hears about our bank balances.”

“Fair enough.” A thought suddenly strikes Murdoc. “Make it Patagonia.”

“Make what Patagonia?”

“The far flung place where he's got his salon.”

“Spa.”

“Right.”

“What's Patagonia famous for?”

Murdoc tries to recall the documentary. “Yaks. There were some yaks in that thing on the Beeb.”

“I'll add it in.”

He sees one of the stewards trotting towards the shop. “I think they want me back on the plane. See you around midday in Arrivals?”

“Yeah. Happy travels,” 2D says dryly.

Murdoc waits until they've finished fuelling, until they've taken off and he's several whiskeys deep before he brings himself to open the email. It's blank, save for the title and the identically named attachment. His finger hovers over it until, with a lurch of his stomach and a sigh of “fuck it”, he clicks.

It's rough and ready, littered with typos and notes reminding 2D to revisit certain sentences. Its thrust, however, is clear: Murdoc is saved by some mysterious entity. He's given another chance. There's no artistry to any of it, the writing is almost comically blunt. He thinks about that Murdoc, crawling through the sewers, begging for his life and covered in shit. He looks down at his ruined suit and dirty feet and holds himself as he cries, sobs interspersed with laughter. When the tears slow and the laughter fades, he lets himself give in to sleep.

*

2D wakes to a prod on the shoulder.

“Morning sunbeam.”

He stretches, neck protesting after hours spent slumped in a chair in Arrivals. He gives his eyes a quick rub as he marshals his senses, turning to face Murdoc in the chair beside his.

“How long've you been there?” he asks around a yawn. Murdoc - gaunter, older and in desperate need of a shave - gives him a soft smile.

“Just got here.”

“Thought about finding some paper,” 2D says woozily. “Writing one of those signs like chauffeurs do with “dickhead” on it.”

Murdoc gives a tired, if appreciative, chuckle before lifting up one forearm as though to shield his face. 2D looks at him askance.

“You said you were gonna twat me one when I was released,” Murdoc explains. “Thought I better prepare.”

2D's on the verge of laughing when he registers how tattered Murdoc's suit is. “What happened to your clothes?” Sure enough, on looking down, 2D sees that Murdoc's feet are dirty and bare.

“Got a bit overexcited.”

“Leapt before you looked?”

“You know me.”

There's something imperceptibly off about Murdoc's expression, something in the way his eyes crease fondly at the corners that leaves 2D in no doubt. “You read it then.”

“Covered in shit, washed up by Aldi eh?” Murdoc asks, not quite meeting his eye. 2D sees how his jaw twitches in his effort to maintain a neutral expression.

“It's a metaphor,” 2D rests his hand on Murdoc's thigh, studying middle distance. “It's an end to it.”

He senses Murdoc’s unspoken questions, how he wants 2D to invite them and answer them. Briefly, he grips Murdoc's leg. “Enough. I can't keep having this conversation.”

Murdoc makes a soft noise of acknowledgement. “What would Murdoc 2.0 say to that?”

“I dunno,” 2D admits. “I guess we'll find out. I'm retiring from blogging, you better take the reins with him.”

He leans down and tries to pull off his trainers but the laces are too tight. Puzzledly, Murdoc gets to his knees to untie them for him and 2D works them off, which only adds to Murdoc's clear confusion. When he peels off his socks and holds them out, Murdoc seems to catch his drift with a warped smile.

“Pink's not my colour.”

2D shoves his trainers back on for Murdoc to fasten before getting slowly to his feet.

“You can wear them or you can eat them.”

Murdoc pretends to consider his options before yanking them on. 2D stops right in front of Murdoc and looks down, further down than normal, thanks to Murdoc's missing boots. They share a momentary, exhausted look before 2D cups the back of Murdoc's head and pulls him into a rough kiss. He feels Murdoc sag against him, hands loosely holding 2D's waist.

“You really stink,” 2D mutters when they pull apart.

“Must be bad if you can smell it.”

“Must be. Come on,” 2D says, leading the way towards the Underground signs. He taps his Oyster card on the ticket barrier only for it to tell him to top up. He casts a tired look at Murdoc.

“My credit cards are getting declined. You got any cash?”

Murdoc’s cheek twitches with a smirk. “I've got a better idea.”

With a grunt, Murdoc pulls himself over the barrier, the action clearly more of an effort twenty years later. After threatening to overthink it, 2D just flings himself over, his height helping matters. They jog to the platform, panting for breath as they flop into a Cockfosters bound train alongside curious tourists. They spread out in their seats, Murdoc's leg pressing warm against 2D's. One minute, they're at Osterley. The next, 2D's eyes snap open to see signs for Hyde Park Corner, Murdoc sound asleep beside him. 2D hastily studies the tube map as he gives Murdoc's shoulder a shake.

“We went past Hammersmith,” he says when Murdoc's eyes crack open.

Murdoc blearily joins in studying the map. “We could double back,” he says giving his face a rub. “But I reckon Murdoc 2.0 could go for a pint.”

“Ship and Shovel?”

Murdoc keeps looking at the map with a wry smile. “Think we're closer to one of our old haunts at this point.”

It takes 2D a moment to catch his drift. He mirrors Murdoc's expression.

They jump the barriers at Piccadilly, go down Shaftesbury Avenue, Windmill Street, Brewer Street, Green's Court. The Drunken Monkey looks unchanged. They head inside and find a table near the back, facing the empty stage. The jukebox plays Buzzcocks.

Unprompted, Murdoc hands 2D a twenty pound note from his pocket. On his return from the bar, 2D drops onto his stool and hands Murdoc his Strongbow and change, before taking a drink of his Stella and opening his bag of Skips. Murdoc moves closer until they're shoulder to shoulder. 2D leans against him. They share the crisps and drink their pints.

Murdoc sets down his empty glass. “So,” he says heavily.

2D nearly chokes on his beer. “So.”

“Quite the weekend.”

“Least we've got our health,” 2D deadpans. Murdoc gives him a shove as he laughs and 2D retaliates by grabbing his shoulder and pulling him into a kiss, only stopping when his neck twinges thanks to his poor night's sleep. Straightening up, he helps himself to the last of the Skips.

“Guess I won't be retiring to Jamaica any time soon,” he says around his mouthful.

“Nevermind, wasn't planning to retire yet anyway.”

“Speak for yourself.”

The jukebox finishes playing and something about the silence prompts 2D to carry on.

“So what're we gonna do?”

Murdoc purses his lips in thought. “Retrain as accountants?”

2D scoffs in amusement.

“Invest the,” Murdoc counts his change, “nine quid I've got to my name in Bitcoin?”

2D pretends to consider it. “Or we could finish the tour.”

“We could. And we could write another album,” Murdoc says, tone almost conspiratorial.

“We could.”

“We're good at those.”

2D wrinkles his nose. “Depends who you ask.”

“We're good at those,” Murdoc insists with a smile.

2D plucks the pound coins off the table and nods at the jukebox. “For now though, let's put another record on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far: sincerely, thank you. I really hope you enjoyed the fic. Please come say hey on Tumblr if you'd like (elapsed-spiral). 
> 
> Until Phase 6 - Danni


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